


Bad Things Happen (A Lot)

by kaijuvenom



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Electrocution, F/F, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other, Section 31 (Star Trek), Surgery, Therapy, Used As Bait
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 22,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijuvenom/pseuds/kaijuvenom
Summary: A collection of short, one chapter fics written for my two hundred follower celebration on Tumblr. All of them are highly angsty, some deal with death and torture, but every fic will have a summary and warnings in the beginning notes.
Relationships: Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek), Jadzia Dax/Kilana (Star Trek)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 38





	1. I Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun, used as bait, requested by anon.  
> Featuring Dayoun, radiation poisoning, and an ambiguous ending that can either be agonizing death or a miraculous save by Garak and Kira, but I couldn't decide how to end it properly.

“Clearly, this is some kind of trap,” Kira said, rather unnecessarily, Damar thought. Of course it was a trap. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t run into it blindly with the vague hope that he could get Weyoun back. 

“You said you saw Weyoun die,” Garak interjected, “so this is clearly a new one. The Dominion will have manipulated his genetics, perhaps even put some sort of tracking device in him. It’s what I would do.”

“Garak’s right. It’s not a risk we can take.”

Leave it to Garak and Kira to finally agree on something and have it be _this._

“He died for me,” Damar said numbly, staring at the frozen comm screen depicting Weyoun’s face, fearful and fragile. 

“Maybe Weyoun Eight died for you, but this one didn’t. Who knows what they did to him,” Kira said, and she was looking at him with an unreadable expression on her face, like she was trying to determine why Damar was so insistent upon saving Weyoun.

“The Founders’ ability to manipulate the morals, beliefs, and feelings of the Vorta is incredibly overstated,” Damar said after a long moment of silence. “They can control how the Vorta feel about them, but they can’t do anything about the rest of their emotions.” He knew that only because Weyoun had told him that.

“Weyoun Eight dying could have been just another step in the Founder’s plan. He gains your trust, even dies for you, and the Founders have another Weyoun waiting in the wings to manipulate you into revealing the location of the Cardassian rebels.”

Logically, Garak was probably right. But he didn’t _know,_ and even if he did, he was too paranoid and mistrusting to ever understand. He wouldn’t understand the bond that Weyoun and Damar had, one that had been developed since he’d first met Weyoun Five, and only ever continued to strengthen. It couldn’t all be a lie, because their relationship predated Damar ever even thinking about rebelling against the Dominion.

The marks on Weyoun’s face, a result of the immense radiation of the planet he was hiding on, were painful even to look at, and Damar turned away from the comm system, burying his face in his hands. 

“He’s going to die a slow, painful death, and we’re just supposed to sit here and let that happen?”

“What else can we do?” Kira asked, and rested a hand that was probably meant to be comforting on Damar’s shoulder. 

“Save him. I can go to him and save him. I’ll go alone if you won’t come with me, but I will _not_ leave him to die again.” He’d seen Weyoun die so many times, the transporter, the Klingon, the pain in Weyoun Six’s eyes when he’d been forced to activate his implant, and Damar hadn’t been able to be the one to hold him, to tell him he was going to be alright, he could only watch from so far away, and finally, Weyoun Eight being shot by a Jem’Hadar to allow Damar time to escape. 

Every death was seared into his brain, coming to him in nightmares and day terrors, riddled with guilt and fear. 

“Damar-” Kira began, and he didn’t bother listening to her objections, because he was already leaving, transporting up to one of their ships without a second thought. If it was a trap of some kind, then he supposed he would die, but if he didn’t do this he _knew_ he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. 

********

“He won’t come,” Weyoun said, shifting his position to rest more comfortably against the rocks without irritating the lesions on his skin from the radiation. He stared down at his hands as he spoke, refusing to look at the Founder. “He won’t come,” he repeated, like he was trying to convince himself, and maybe he was. He _hoped_ Damar wouldn’t take the bait the Founders had laid out for him, but to be frank, he didn’t know what he would do. Damar was predictable, but only to an extent. No matter how many times Weyoun would remind him that he was expendable, replaceable, and not even really a _real person,_ Damar would insist the opposite. He treated Weyoun like he was real, but he didn’t know if that treatment would extend to risking the entire fate of Cardassia for him.

He hoped it wouldn’t. 

“We will see,” The Founder responded, her voice laced with anger that made Weyoun flinch away. 

He picked at a radiation spot on his skin, clenching his teeth to prevent crying out in pain as it flaked off without a struggle. He was going to die here, of that he was sure. The Founder had made the perfect plan, one that Weyoun was sure would result in his death no matter the outcome, it was only a matter of whether or not Damar would join him in that death. 

Weyoun had never meant for this to happen, he’d only ever wanted to ensure Damar escaped successfully, and he hadn’t thought about _himself_ because he never thought about himself. But then Weyoun Eight had been killed because a Jem’Hadar had discovered his and Damar’s plan, and this was the result. Weyoun Nine being forced to this planet, made to send a communication to Damar in hopes to lure him here to discover the location of all of his rebel bases and then leave them both here to die. It was a good plan, with, Weyoun hoped, one glaring problem. 

Damar wouldn’t come. 

He couldn’t. Because if he _did,_ he would die and it would be Weyoun’s fault and he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

They waited for what seemed like hours, but it was likely only minutes. Time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, and perhaps that was just because of the radiation rushing through Weyoun’s body and slowly killing him, the way his eyes watered from pain whenever he blinked. He wasn’t crying, not yet at least. And even if he was, there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it, the thick, toxic air made it hard for him to breathe, even if it did take longer to affect him than it would for most life forms, and an inability to breathe made it impossible to move. The Founder remained unaffected, or at least, he assumed she was, it was hard to determine if her appearance was due to her illness or the radiation, but he doubted she would have beamed down with Weyoun if she knew the radiation would have affected her. 

“Our sensors indicate a ship approaching, Weyoun,” she said, and that last little bit of hope that had been living in Weyoun’s body finally dissipated. 

“Founder-” he tried speaking, to appeal to her and perhaps let Damar live.

“Do not speak to me. You and the Cardassian betrayed the Dominion, and you betrayed _me._ You don’t even deserve to plead for your lives.”

He would have sobbed if he thought he was still capable of it, but his throat wasn’t working and he could barely move. If Damar beamed down, he would be unable to beam back up, the Founder had made sure it was impossible, just as impossible as it would be for Damar to beam Weyoun up without leaving his ship. 

The buzz of the transporter was the most devastating noise Weyoun had ever heard, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head down. He couldn’t look at Damar, not like this. Not when he didn’t have a fragment of life left in him, and the Founder was going to let them both die. 

He heard Damar speaking to him, his voice was far away and he couldn’t make out the words. The Founder said something, she was lying, Weyoun didn’t know what she was saying but he knew she was lying. He tried to say as much, but when he tried to speak, dark purple blood pooled in his mouth and he choked, spitting it out and leaning back against the rock. 

Something touched him and he didn’t have the energy to see what it was, nor was he able to see what they were doing, but the Founder said something else, and he registered the noise of a transporter. 

Damar’s voice echoed in his mind again, saying his name, over and over again, or maybe it was just once and Weyoun was traveling backwards and forwards in time, forever stuck in some sort of purgatory.

“I’m sorry,” Weyoun said quietly, and the pain it took for him to speak was too much to talk again, and he couldn’t ask  _ why, why  _ Damar had come to get him, why he cared enough about Weyoun to risk being caught in a trap. 


	2. What It Feels Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hallucinations: requested by [darthpumpkinspice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice)  
> It features: a lot of headcannons regarding Vorta cloning, an abrupt ending because I couldn't figure out how to end it (apparently this is a theme within my fics for these prompts), hallucinations within hallucinations, and Dayoun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know those comics that are of the Kahfka cockroach and the Kahfka cockroach gets a text that's like “listen dude, I’m really sorry you’ve awoken from an uneasy sleep to find yourself transformed into a giant insect, but you still need to come into work”. Weyoun is the cockroach in this.

Weyoun was used to misunderstanding the passage of time, used to falling asleep one night and waking up and not being sure where he was, what century he was currently living in, but it had never occurred to such an extreme before. 

He first started noticing things seemed wrong when he spoke to Major Kira one day, the world had shifted under his feet and he’d been somewhere else. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Weyoun heard himself say, only he wasn’t speaking to Major Kira anymore, he was speaking to something else, a creature he vaguely recognized, but couldn’t place. He knew the name of it was buried somewhere in the folders of his many minds, many lives, but it was just out of reach. It spoke to him not verbally, but in his head, responding with the same words Major Kira would—or had, he wasn’t sure what was beginning and what was after. 

_ “What could a simple shopkeeper do to drive out a military force?” _

Weyoun watched himself answer from outside of his body, or he knew what he was going to say,  _ “It may seem extreme, but I can’t help the fact that his records state a history of criminal activity. You understand, of course.”  _

The creature he was speaking to was angry, just as Major Kira would be, and Weyoun remembered, with a shock, that this was the part where he would die, and it should have happened by now, the creature should have extended its arm and grabbed him, he remembered the brief pain of feeling its talons in his skin, and then he should die. Except… he wasn’t dying. The creature had turned and was slowly stalking away, and that wasn’t  _ right  _ because that wasn’t what happened, He’d have to fix this, and just as he was about to think about how he could fix this, that sharp pain he’d been expecting coursed through his neck, and then he collapsed. 

********

The Vorta doctor had asked Damar to leave the room, but he’d refused. He didn’t trust her not to just kill Weyoun and make up some excuse that he’d died unexpectedly because the life support had failed. Instead, he paced the room, his hands behind his back, worry creasing his expression. 

“Fascinating,” the doctor mumbled, and Damar whipped around, practically materializing behind her. 

“What? What’s wrong with him?”

“It’s quite a rare problem, one we had hoped we successfully mutated out of the Vorta genes, but it seems we missed something.”

“Missed  _ what?  _ What is  _ happening  _ to him?”

“We used to call it tearing. Some Vorta are weaker than others. It’s usually a sign that their line has either depleted, or was never strong enough to withstand the trauma of death to begin with.”

“Weyoun is not  _ weak,”  _ Damar argued, seething. He was going to punch this doctor directly in her smug, superior face. “And you still haven’t told me what’s  _ happening  _ to him.”

“Weyoun has begun tearing. As Major Kira said, he collapsed in a conference room with no warning, and shows no outward signifiers of alertness and will not live if he is disconnected from our equipment. He currently believes he is dead.”

_ “Why?”  _

“He experienced a trigger, and was reminded of one of his predecessor’s deaths. He was unable to tuck it back into his subconscious in time—a signifier that his line  _ is _ deteriorated—and so was forced into the memory,” the doctor said, and Damar didn’t miss her snide side commentary, but he limited his reaction to it to a fierceful glare. 

“Will he come out of it?” 

“He may. He may not. Soon, his body should begin functioning on its own, as soon as he registers himself as a new clone. After that, he may regain consciousness at any time, or he may not.”

“And… how long will it…?” Damar trailed off, staring down at Weyoun’s lifeless body, reaching over and touching his hand, wrapping his fingers around it. They were colder than usual, but he felt a pulse, even if it was forced through him by a machine. He was still alive. And there was a chance. 

“If he hasn’t regained consciousness within a day, he will be terminated and another Vorta will be sent to replace him.”

“You mean a new Weyoun?” Damar clarified, looking up at her, refusing to let go of Weyoun’s hand. 

“No. His line will have been determined faulty, and too deteriorated to be continued.”

Damar nearly snapped Weyoun’s wrist from squeezing it too hard.

********

When Weyoun woke up, the medbay of DS9 was too bright, everything was too bright, and the ceiling was made of glass. Rain pattered on the delicate-looking roof, at least three or four stories above him. He couldn’t sit up, or move much at all, but he wasn’t surprised by that. He wasn’t on DS9, he was on his homeworld, in one of the cloning facilities. It made sense, he realized, because the last thing he remembered was dying. Or was the last thing he remembered Major Kira? Had Major Kira killed him? He couldn’t recall. 

It wasn’t important. 

The voice of the Vorta above him, probably the one who had been assigned to oversee the growth of his new body, finally hit his ears. 

“You are Weyoun Three,” the Vorta said, and Weyoun recognized him, vaguely, as Yelgrun. “It has been seven weeks since Weyoun Two were killed by a rebellious Ukreon during his stay as their Vorta leader. Weyoun Two was attacked by this creature, which grabbed his neck and injected its retractable talons into his throat.”

Weyoun knew it was standard of Vorta to give a clinical explanation of what had happened to them, the Founders had discovered it was easier for the Vorta to compartmentalize the deaths of their predecessors if it was—what was the phrase Jake would say sometimes? Ripped off like a bandaid, that was it. 

But he found Yelgrun’s extremely uninterested way of telling him to be even more disconcerting than most. Weyoun remembered experiencing this, he remembered it happening and he remembered being uncomfortable at the way Yelgrun spoke, but now it didn’t phase him. How else should he phrase it? It wasn’t as if Weyoun deserved comfort. 

He twitched his index finger and attempted to sit up. As he did, he noticed a figure across the building, facing him. It was far enough away that it was nothing more than a humanoid dark blob to his poor eyesight, but it felt familiar. Not because he remembered it being here, but for some other reason he couldn’t establish. He regained control of his legs and stumbled off the bed he’d been lying on top of, steadying himself against Yelgrun, who made a disgruntled noise in response to being touched, and by the time Weyoun looked up, the figure was gone again. 

Well, he supposed, just like the question of why he’d ended up lost in time, the question of whatever he’d seen lurking in the corner of his vision would remain unanswered, and he didn’t particularly care. He had a job to do, after all. 

He flexed his foot, taking a careful step and managing to balance himself. His head still felt fuzzy, but he ignored it. 

“Have I been reassigned?” Weyoun asked, assuming the answer was yes. Another Vorta would have replaced him to maintain the Ukreon’s planet—likely with more personal Jem’Hadar guards than Weyoun had—considering Weyoun Two had died seven weeks ago. 

“Yes. You’re going to be watching over the torn Vorta.”

Weyoun blinked. “What?” He asked. “I’m a trained diplomat, have I— _ what?”  _ Watching over the Vorta who were in the process of tearing was one of the jobs assigned to the inexperienced and youngest, only just above supervising the torture (reintegration) of rebellious Vorta. 

“You were killed during what should have been a diplomatic meeting. Clearly, you are not yet qualified for diplomatic missions, and the Founders have determined you need more training.”

“But I—” Weyoun began, but Yelgrun cut him off before he could speak.

“Are you questioning the will of the Founders?” 

Weyoun flinched, blinking rapidly. “No. Of course not.”

“The Vorta you’ll be examining is down the main corridor, the second door on your left,” Yelgrun said shortly, and Weyoun watched him turn away and leave, walking away as if he had somewhere more important to be. 

He didn’t move for a moment, still rather unbalanced, and he’d made the mistake of trying to walk too soon once before and ended up nearly killing himself right after being activated. 

Eventually, he took a step, and was relieved to find his legs didn’t immediately collapse under him.

The Vorta in the room wasn’t right. Weyoun couldn’t remember why he knew that, but it wasn’t right. He looked oddly familiar, though. Weyoun tilted his head as he stared down at it, and the unconscious Vorta mirrored his movement. 

The heart monitor was beeping rhythmically, echoing in the back of Weyoun’s head as he stared down at the Vorta, trying to recall where he’d seen his face before.

Oh.

It was  _ him.  _ Weyoun was staring down at himself. Which he knew couldn’t be correct, because if  _ he  _ was the Vorta who was tearing, he shouldn’t  _ also  _ be the one activated to watch himself. And this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

He remembered this happening, but it was different, it was correct, and this time it was  _ wrong.  _ He frowned, staring down at himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted that same blurry figure next to him, and he jumped away. The figure didn’t seem to notice him, it was sitting on a chair next to the Weyoun on the bed, holding his hand. 

He felt as if he should recognize it. He should know who this was, but the memory (premonition?) was distant, and it hardly seemed important. He still had a job to do, the Founders had told him to examine this Vorta, and that was exactly what he would do, even if something seemed incredibly wrong.

********

“Weyoun?” Damar said quietly, watching as Weyoun twitched, his hand gripping Damar’s even as he was unconscious. “I hope you know that if you don’t wake up, they’re going to replace you. And I doubt any Vorta they send could match your abilities to drive me insane. I might have to quit.”

Whether somehow brought to consciousness by Damar’s words, or pure coincidence, Weyoun’s eyes snapped open and he sat up, so quickly it made Damar jump back in shock.


	3. To Have Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Handcuffed/manacled, trying not to cry, reluctant caretaker, and don’t you dare pity me for Dayoun, requested by anon.  
> Featuring: yeah it is what it sounds like,

As far as Weyoun knew, Damar had tried to take the blame for him. 

The Founder hadn’t accepted his claims, and she was right not to. While Damar had been the one to suggest simply shooting the runabout with Odo still inside it, it was Weyoun who had agreed to it, and given the order. The Founders expected different things from Damar, expected less. He was a Cardassian; and he didn’t worship the Founders. Weyoun, on the other hand, had been told, in no uncertain terms, that Odo was more important than the entire Alpha Quadrant to the Founder, and he had chosen to disobey her. 

He didn’t know what would happen to him, and that was perhaps worse than if he had known. Perhaps there would be a formal, public execution. Done in the Cardassian way. It would certainly do well to strengthen the Dominion’s relationship with Cardassia, to show that they would execute their own as readily as they would execute Cardassian traitors. He was likely only being made to wait to cause him more anxiety. 

He’d managed to unlock his cell door, just to see if he could, and filed that information away so he could remember to have the locks upgraded, before remembering he couldn’t. Because he was going to be executed. So instead he just stared at the unlocked door, crossing his arms around his knees and waiting for someone to notice.

It took much longer than Weyoun would have expected for the Jem’Hadar guards outside his cell to notice it was unlocked, which was another thing he would have filed away to improve upon later if he hadn’t been in the situation he was currently in. There was a shuffling noise outside his cell and the door slid open before Weyoun could react to it.

It was Damar, with two Jem’Hadar behind him, whom he waved away as he entered. 

“I…” He began, and then paused, pressing the switch to shut the door behind him. “I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said.

Weyoun tilted his head. “Where else would I be?”

Damar looked around briefly, as if he wasn’t sure how to continue this conversation. “Sensors registered that you’d managed to unlock your door.”

“That was nearly an hour ago,” Weyoun responded, narrowing his eyes. “You only just noticed?”

“Weyoun,” Damar said, and he sighed, eyes traveling to the manacles around Weyoun’s ankles that he hadn’t bothered to try to unlock, “I noticed as soon as you unlocked it.”

“Oh,” Weyoun said, as Damar’s words clicked into place. “If the Founder knew-”

“I don’t care. I don’t have anything left to live for. Cardassia is dead, you’re…” He trailed off. 

“I’m going to be executed,” Weyoun finished, without any emotion behind it. “I am aware.”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Damar asked, hoping somehow that Weyoun would give him an answer he could understand.

“The Founders will decide my fate,” he said easily. 

“Bullshit.”

Weyoun directed his gaze up to meet Damar’s, curling his face into the best approximation of hateful disappointment that he could muster towards him. “My motivations and reasons for living are reliant on things far beyond your comprehension. The Founders are wise in all things.”

“You’re scared.”

Weyoun reared his head back as if he’d been slapped, and for a moment, a flicker of fear did show on his face, confirming Damar’s suspicion. “I am not. I place my trust in the Founders, and whatever their decision is-”

“Why are you still lying to me? You’re going to  _ die,  _ Weyoun, why are you still lying?”

“Because that’s all I have,” Weyoun snapped. “The only thing I have is the Founders, and that’s all I’ve  _ ever  _ had. If I abandon them now, I’ll have nothing.”

As much as Damar didn’t want to say it, to cause Weyoun any more pain than he had already, he knew he needed to. “Your Gods abandoned you, Weyoun. You don’t have them, and you never did. They repaid your centuries of love and worship with a death sentence, and you aren’t going to come back from this one.”

Weyoun didn’t respond, he seemed, for the first time since Damar had known him, to be at a loss for words. 

“I don’t want you to die. Why is it so hard for you to believe that you have  _ me?”  _ He knew why, because Weyoun had lived his whole life never having anyone, but he didn’t truly think Weyoun would rather  _ die  _ than admit he had a reason to live.

He still didn’t seem to have a response, he lowered his eyes from Damar’s face and stared down at the ground. Damar waited, hoping that he might say something else, but he received no answer, and finally left Weyoun alone, hoping to come back tomorrow. Weyoun’s execution wasn’t scheduled yet, but he knew he couldn’t delay it forever. 

********

“What happened?” Damar asked, kneeling down to help Weyoun up. He stumbled, and his face tightened almost imperceptibly in pain as he leaned against Damar’s chest. 

“I’m sure you’re aware the Jem’Hadar don’t care for me,” he said, cradling his arm against his chest protectively. 

“Which one did this?”

Weyoun glared at him, pulling himself away from Damar and leaning against the wall. “I’m not telling you that.” 

Damar sighed, reaching forward and taking Weyoun’s hand, carefully unlocking and removing the handcuffs he’d been put in and dropping them to the floor. “Have they been feeding you?” He asked, not failing to notice the way his hand easily encircled Weyoun’s wrist, which he was fairly certain he couldn’t do before. 

“Stop worrying about me.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, they have,” Weyoun snapped. “They bring me food twice a day.”

“Have you been eating it?” Damar asked. 

Weyoun glared at him and didn’t answer. 

“Your execution date has been moved up. It’s tomorrow,” Damar said, trying to meet Weyoun’s eyes but finding it impossible as he kept turning away from him. “Weyoun.”

“I heard you.”

“You can leave, Weyoun. In fact,  _ please  _ leave.”

“No,” Weyoun said, shaking his head. “I’m not leaving. And I don’t want your pity.”

There wasn’t anything Damar could do, save for knocking Weyoun out and sending him away with Worf and Ezri when he helped them escape. 

He hoped Weyoun wouldn’t be too mad at him when he regained consciousness.


	4. Sucked Out Of Your Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> on the run, ambush, and painful wound cleaning, requested by anon.  
> Featuring: some mild body horror (just vaguely mentioned injuries), dayoun banter, and Weyoun going feral for several minutes and causing Damar some extreme concern.

The low buzz of insects was reverberating in Weyoun’s ears, and he was fairly certain it was going to drive him insane. He couldn’t even focus on Damar’s words, in fact he wasn’t even sure Damar was speaking, all he could hear was an incessant thrumming. He wasn’t sure if it was actually the insects, or simply the reverberating shock of the shuttlecraft crash, or perhaps the sound of his own voice echoing in his mind with what he’d said to the Founder before his and Damar’s escape. 

It was so loud, in fact, that he didn’t hear the Jem’Hadar approaching. He’d been foolish to believe they wouldn’t be able to locate Damar and Weyoun, that they’d be hidden enough on this planet, and perhaps they’d even think they’d died in the crash. 

When they did appear, it took Weyoun several long seconds to react to it, and he was only just able to pull Damar into a standing position before they became fully visible and Damar noticed them.

Vorta eyes were notoriously weak, but after several centuries of working with Jem’Hadar, he’d learned how to spot their camouflage. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite fast enough, or rather, strong enough to move Damar completely out of the way before the phaser shot. Weyoun registered a sharp pain as he was hit in the arm, and then he found himself pulling Damar away, running further into the deep woods of the planet, hoping he’d be able to outrun the Jem’Hadar simply by speed. If he’d been alone, he would’ve simply managed to outrun then and climb up one of the trees. Most scanning technology seemed to be blocked on this planet, which was lucky, the Jem’Hadar wouldn’t be able to scan the area and locate them. 

They ended up in a cave, Weyoun leading Damar deep inside and doing his best to cover up the cave entrance, using camouflage techniques he remembered learning nearly a thousand years ago, and hoping it would be good enough. Damar was saying something, but his words were scrambled and Weyoun couldn’t make sense of them. They needed a fire, Weyoun realized, ignoring Damar and locating some large sticks, rocks, and dried leaves. He remembered learning how to start fires in a primitive way, as well, and he managed it after only a few tries. 

Water and food were also a necessity, and Weyoun tilted his head, listening for the sound of a stream nearby, perhaps even one underground, in which case they might not even have to leave the cave to get water, which— 

Something grabbed his arm. He attacked before he could make out what it was in the low light, and ended up flat on his back with his wrists pinned down. The  _ thump  _ of his head hitting hard ground was painful enough that it snapped him back into awareness, the awareness that it was Damar, and he was holding him down for some reason. 

“Your arm,” he said, and Weyoun frowned up at him. Was he aware that Weyoun couldn’t look at his arm while it was currently pinned down?

He simply blinked up at Damar, still vaguely aware that he was struggling against his grip, trying to kick him in the chest and failing. 

“Weyoun,” Damar said, and his voice echoed, mixing with that incessant buzzing of insects—which Weyoun was just realizing was rather odd, because the buzzing hadn’t faded at all since they’d entered the cave. It should have.

Damar said his name again, and Weyoun wasn’t able to focus on it, the constant thrumming was still overriding most of his comprehension of the situation. 

The buzzing was in his head. It was his heartbeat. 

Or his breathing. 

Something. 

_ “Weyoun.”  _

“Ah. Damar.” He blinked. The buzzing faded. “I believe I have a significantly large hole in my arm. Would you mind letting me go?”

Damar stared at him, seemingly at a loss for words, but eventually did pull back, removing himself from on top of Weyoun. “What-” he began, and stopped, watching as Weyoun sat up. 

“The Founders created the Vorta with a remarkable ability to compartmentalize trauma and—” Weyoun broke off, gasping in pain and flinching, bringing his arm closer to his chest, “pain,” he finished.

“What?” 

“It’s a—primal instinct. They only elevated it. The Vorta can occasionally experience remarkable surges of adrenaline if in a life or death situation, and—” 

“Okay, I don’t care. Let me take off your shirt,” Damar interrupted.

_ “What?”  _

“You were shot in the arm, let me look at it before you bleed out,” Damar elaborated. 

“Oh. Right.” Weyoun said, shaking slightly. He extended his arm out, then flinched in pain, tucking it back in against his chest.

“Just stay still.” Damar reached over, gently untying Weyoun’s jacket and slipping it off his shoulders. “This wouldn’t be such an issue if you didn’t wear so many layers,” he said blandly.

Weyoun started to come up with a witty retort, but instead made a rather embarrassing noise of pain and tried to pull his arm away from Damar, only ending up hurting himself more in the process. 

“I told you to stay still,” Damar said, frowning at him.

“Maybe I could stay still if you weren’t manhandling me. With your big… man hands.” 

“Man hands,” Damar repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. 

“I stand by what I said.”

Damar made a noise in the back of his throat, one that might’ve been the beginning of a chuckle, but it quickly dissipated once he’d managed to pull off Weyoun’s jacket and shirt. 

The phaser shot had ripped straight through Weyoun’s arm and burnt through to the side of his chest. Damar had seen plenty of revolting injuries in his time in the Cardassian military, but for some reason seeing Weyoun like this was worse than any of the others.

“This is going to hurt,” he said, trying to avoid staring at the way goosebumps appeared on Weyoun’s pale skin, the way dark purple blood slowly oozed from his chest. 

“I don’t think anything could hurt more than— _ ah!” _ As Damar tied up Weyoun’s arm, his good arm snapped out and gripped Damar’s, squeezing him with a strength he hadn’t realized Weyoun possessed. 

“If I were a good Vorta, I would’ve activated my impla— _ fuck you, fuck!”  _

Damar managed a small smirk, glancing up at Weyoun’s face briefly. “Love you, too.” 

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Weyoun asked, taking several deep breaths. 

Damar looked away from his face to focus on the burn on his chest, trying to clean it off as best he could with the limited supplies they had. “Yes. You’ve discovered my plan. I’ll kill you slowly by trying to save your life with my subpar medical training.”

“I knew it.”


	5. I Finally Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keevan with don't you dare pity me and reluctant caretaker, requested by anon. (yes, I know I already did these two on the bingo sheet, but some were requested before I had time to update the sheet and also I really wanted to write them, so you might see some repeats)  
> Featuring: no romantic relationships (although I did write Weyoun and Keevan as bitterly divorced, even if it isn't mentioned), some minor mentions of injury and torture, and some mediocre to terrible levels of medical treatment.

“Keevan,” Weyoun said, his voice as soft as it always was. As soft and velvety and as full of nothing but lies and hypocrisy. “Activate your implant.  _ Please.  _ I know what they can do. They’re going to break you.”

His tone sounded so genuine Keevan almost believed him. 

“You have such little faith in me,” he responded, offering him an attempt at his usual smirk, but he found it was much harder to feel smug and superior when he was sitting in a cell, waiting to be tortured. “And don’t you have a  _ job  _ to get back to? Cardassians to play house with?”

“Keevan,” Weyoun’s tone was bordering on frustrated now. “They’re going to kill you anyway. Why are you insistent on-“

“This isn’t about you,” Keevan snapped before Weyoun could finish his sentence. “They’re not going to kill me.”

“Did you even _tell_ the Federation anything? And besides, why can’t you just-“

Again, Keevan interrupted him. “It isn’t about the information I told the Federation, and you  _ know it _ .” It had never been about that, nothing was ever that simple when it came to his  _ beloved  _ Founders. It was about control, and it was about the fact that the Founders didn’t  _ have it  _ anymore. 

“I can activate it for you, if that would make it easier,” Weyoun offered, and Keevan laughed, dry and humorless. 

“So you can watch me die again? I wouldn’t give you that satisfaction.” 

Weyoun actually had the audacity to look offended at Keevan’s words. “What happened on Granepion B was an  _ accident-“  _

“An _accident,”_ Keevan repeated mockingly, and he would’ve crossed his arms if he were capable of that much movement. “An _accident_ made you drive our ship into a tachyon field and sabotage my oxygen supply?”

Again, the absolute audacity Weyoun had, he actually gasped in shock. “I would  _ never.  _ The oxygen supply was damaged when we hit the tachyon field. Besides, what reason could I  _ possibly  _ have to kill a fellow colleague?”

“Oh, I couldn’t begin to hazard a guess,” Keevan said, rolling his eyes. “But if I could-“ At which point, Weyoun now rolled his eyes, “I would say it was because I was going to be selected to represent the Cardassians in the Dominion, you wanted my job, and you would’ve done anything in your power to get it.”

“I did not-“

“You know, I wouldn’t be at all bothered by it if you simply owned up to what you did. I didn’t want that job, I was perfectly content where I was, but the fact that you  _ lied  _ about it, and now you’re trying to  _ help me  _ because you feel guilty—frankly, it’s revolting.”

“Keevan-” Weyoun didn’t continue his thought, whatever it had been, he simply looked away, sighing quietly. “I am sorry.”

“Well, doesn’t that just make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

“I’m trying to help you.”

Keevan would’ve thrown something at Weyoun’s head if he were capable of less limited movements, such as throwing. And punching. Instead, he just stared. Stared at Weyoun and continued staring, until Weyoun finally seemed to get the message that he wasn’t wanted, and left the room. Keevan watched the door slide shut behind him and felt that familiar emptiness growing back in the pit of his stomach. 

********

“I really wish you’d stop,” Keevan said, his words slow and clear. He spoke as if everything in the world was below his pay grade, even in these circumstances. It was infuriating. Just once, Weyoun would like to see him lose his cool, to actually become affected by something and  _ care _ . Unfortunately, he was afraid he was about to get what he wanted. 

“Is it so hard for you to believe I don’t want you to suffer?” Weyoun asked, wanting to roll his eyes but feeling that might be less than appropriate, given the situation. 

“Dying of oxygen depletion wasn’t exactly a painless death,” Keevan retorted without any real malice behind it. He just sounded tired. 

“More painful than this?” Weyoun asked, and, feeling a bit peeved that Keevan would bring up that time Weyoun had killed him at a moment such as this, popped the joint of Keevan’s finger back into place with no warning, making him yell in pain.

“Fuck you.”

Weyoun chose to respond to that by forcing another one of Keevan’s joints back. 

“I don’t even know why you’re doing this. It’s not like I’m going to be using my hands for anything.”

“You need to eat, don’t you? And I’ll die before I hand-feed you your dinner.”

Keevan sighed, lifting his hand and hesitantly bending his fingers, then cringed in pain. “You know, just because you pushed my joints back where they used to be doesn’t mean you’ve healed me.” 

The rapidly forming bruises around Keevan’s fingers seemed to agree with his words. “Unfortunately, you aren’t allowed medical supplies. This is all you get.”

“I’m beginning to wish I wasn’t even given this.”

Weyoun hid a laugh behind his hand despite himself, and Keevan glared at him, which only made his amusement grow. It wasn’t exactly that this situation was funny, because it really, truly, wasn’t. As much as Weyoun tried to hate Keevan for his flagrant disobedience of the Founders, he’d never wanted to see him tortured. Tortured for no reason than because he was too prideful. Any amount of pride was too much for a Vorta to have, and Keevan was practically oozing with it, even in this situation. The only thing that was truly funny was the fact that Keevan’s sarcastic, uncaring attitude hadn’t missed a beat. 

It was almost admirable. Weyoun doubted that if he were in this situation (which he wouldn’t be, because he would never do what Keevan had done), he could remain as calm and collected. 

“Stop thinking,” Keevan said suddenly, interrupting Weyoun’s analysis of him. 

“Oh, so now you’re policing my thoughts? I might as well just leave,” Weyoun retorted. 

“I’d welcome it.”

“Which is exactly why I refuse to leave. My presence is part of your torture.” 

Keevan just sighed, looking away from him, and it made Weyoun frown. He’d hoped to get at least a derisive snort out of that. Perhaps this really was affecting Keevan. More than Weyoun had originally thought. He was more gentle when realigning the rest of Keevan’s joints. 


	6. What It Feels Like To Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keevan with survivor's guilt, featuring; Ezri before she's Dax, sour gummy Bat'leths, and far less angst than you would expect simply because I had too much fun writing this concept. Oops.

“I’m Doctor Tigan,” the soft voice of someone outside Keevan’s cell brought him unpleasantly out of what had been an already mediocre nap. He responded by throwing his pillow at them, and then immediately regretting it because that was his only pillow. 

“I think I should preface this by saying you’re my first patient. I wasn’t even supposed to be here, but Starfleet is understaffed due to the war, and you’re a high priority for us.”

Keevan sighed, slowly sitting up and dragging the blanket with him to address this doctor with sleep-filled eyes and an amount of energy comparable to that of a sloth. “You’re a Trill,” he pointed out, and chose not to elaborate on that statement. 

“Yes. You can call me Ezri, if you’d prefer.” She sat down at the chair in front of his cell, crossing her legs and balancing a Padd on her lap. 

“I’d prefer to call you nothing,” Keevan said, and then turned away, wrapping himself in his blanket. 

“I was surprised when I got this assignment, but when I did some research, I realized Vorta and joined Trills have a lot in common. Maybe that’s why they asked me to come here.”

Jaw clenched, Keevan more forcefully rolled himself to the furthest edge of his bed. “We have nothing in common.”

“Maybe not. I’m not joined. But I’m sure we have other things in common. For example, I like sour candy.”

_ “What?”  _ That statement almost made Keevan roll around in confusion, but that took too much work, and he wasn’t quite incredulous enough for that level of dedication.

“Sour candy. Remind me to bring you some tomorrow. I can’t imagine the food here is decent,” Ezri said, and she didn’t seem to be frustrated with Keevan for refusing to address her with any form of social decorum. That was probably because she was being professional. She was only here to get information on the Dominion, after all. Under the guise of providing help to prisoners. 

“I can’t taste it, anyway. I thought you read about my species.”

“We don’t have a plethora of information. I’d be happy to learn more.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Ezri was silent for a moment, and Keevan glanced over his shoulder to look at her, frowning. She was typing something on her Padd, frowning to herself. “Your inability to appreciate aesthetics, is that comparable to your inability to taste foods?” She asked, glancing up at him and meeting his eye briefly before Keevan looked away again, staring at the wall.

“I can appreciate aesthetics,” Keevan said, and chose not to elaborate, even as Ezri’s continued silence seemed to make it obvious she was waiting for more information. She could connect the dots if she really wanted to, he was sure. And in fact, based off of her next words, she seemed to have connected them already. 

“Every Vorta, save for you, that we’ve captured from a Dominion ship has killed themselves either before we can transport them to a prison, or as soon as they’re placed in a cell.”

“I am aware.”

“And you volunteered to be taken into Federation custody.”

“Again, I am aware,” Keevan repeated and sighed to himself. If this was therapy, he was beginning to see why The Founders chose to simply rearrange the genetics of the Vorta to make them better at compartmentalizing their trauma instead of actually letting them face it. It was long and boring and nothing was getting done. 

“Why?”

It was such a simple question, and the answer was somehow the simplest and most complicated aspect of Keevan’s life, all of his lives, his entire existence. It all came down to that one question, that had an  _ appropriate  _ answer, and a  _ correct  _ answer. He chose the appropriate answer.

“Because I’m defective.” That was what he was supposed to say, and it was the truth, but it wasn’t an explanation, it wasn’t a reason. It was just an easy answer, an excuse, an obfuscation. 

“Defective?” Ezri repeated, and Keevan could imagine her tilting her head questioningly, the way a Vorta would, although he doubted she was. 

“I’ve been good at hiding it. Not as good as-” He stopped talking, a name on the tip of his tongue, before he swallowed it down, “not as good as some of the others. Evidently.” 

“But if you hadn’t turned yourself in, the Dominion never would have known you were defective. You would’ve died, and they would’ve created you again.”

“It’s an endless cycle,” Keevan said, and finally found it in himself to sit up, if only to work up the energy to grab his pillow, which was all the way across his room. The blanket slipped off his shoulders and he didn’t bother to grab it. “And I got tired of it. I just wanted it to stop.”

“So much that you were willing to let your Jem’Hadar be slaughtered to escape?”

Keevan flinched, and he was rather afraid it was visible, and he wrapped his arms around himself. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t regret it.” He didn’t. He didn’t regret it, he would do it again a hundred times. 

Because he was selfish. He was selfish and he always had been, his line had only continued this long because of it. Because he valued his own life and safety above anyone else’s, and he lived in a society where no one valued their lives. No one except him. It eliminated guilt. It  _ should  _ eliminate the guilt. Because why should he feel bad about killing Jem’Hadar? They lived to die. They hated him. And why would he regret letting Vorta colleagues die? Within a month, their clones would be activated. It wouldn’t affect them. Keevan was the only one who was affected, because he was the only one who felt anything, the only one who saw the Dominion for what it was and the Founders for who they were. If no one else did, it wasn’t his problem. If anything, it was an advantage. It should’ve eliminated the potential for guilt, but there was still an ache of it, a sliver of it existing in the pit of his stomach, no matter what he tried to do to justify it. 

Keevan pushed responsibility onto others, he forced them into their deaths or to traumatic experiences because he knew that a Vorta who wasn’t like him, one who wasn’t defective and broken and  _ feeling,  _ could compartmentalize it. So he’d let Vorta and Jem’Hadar die for him, over and over again, and pushed down the guilt because he  _ knew  _ he had nothing to feel guilty over.

Not until he’d worked with another defective Vorta, of course. Keevan hadn’t known, his colleague had hidden it too well, much better than Keevan was ever able to, so when Keevan had left him alone on that planet to be slowly tortured to death by a sadistic race of aliens, he hadn’t thought twice about it. 

The Vorta’s new clone was activated a few weeks later, and he hadn’t been able to compartmentalize the trauma. Keevan still remembered his pained screams, the way he’d struggled against the chains the Vorta doctors had been forced to put him in, and he remembered when they’d been forced to kill him. His line had been discontinued, and that was the end of it. 

And all Keevan remembered thinking, all he thought about now, was  _ that could have been me.  _

And perhaps it wasn’t guilt over what he’d done, but guilt over the fact that he would do it again without hesitation.

********

“Keevan?” Ezri’s voice once again forced Keevan out of his nap, but this time he sat up without much complaint, forming at her as she sat down in her usual chair. “I brought you some of that sour candy. Try it.” She tossed him a bag, and it landed unceremoniously next to Keevan’s foot, where he stared at it blankly. 

“I told you, I have no taste buds.”

“Just try it. I have a feeling you’ll be able to taste  _ that.” _

Keevan sighed, leaning over and picking up the bag, ripping it open with his teeth and staring into its contents, at the brightly-colored, sweet smelling pieces of candy, which seemed to be shaped into what he could only categorize as crude imitations of Klingon Bat’leths. He picked one up and squished it between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it. A sprinkling of some unidentified substance rubbed off and fell onto his lap. 

“Are these a Trill delicacy?” He asked, a bit of the diplomacy that had been continuously drilled into him oozing into his words.

“No. They’re an old Earth food. They have them in vending machines at Starfleet Academy. I got addicted my second year there.”

Keevan opened his mouth to ask what a  _ vending machine  _ was, but then decided he didn’t care, and popped the candy in his mouth. Immediately, his eyes widened in shock and he spit it out onto the floor, staring at the candy as if it had personally offended him.

“That  _ hurts!”  _ He opened his mouth and ran a finger over his tongue, expecting boils to be popping up at any second. 

Ezri laughed, and then, seeming to realize that perhaps laughing was rude, hid her laughter behind her Padd, as if that would prevent Keevan from staring at her with a mixture of horror and shock. 

“Are you trying to torture me? Because I’ve already told you everything I know about the Dominion’s plans for-”

“I’m not  _ torturing  _ you, I wasn’t even sure you’d be able to taste sour candy. Apparently,” she paused to chuckle again, “you can.”

“Do you expect me to believe you eat this? For  _ fun?”  _

“Of course,” Ezri shrugged. “Throw the bag back over here.”

Keevan pursed his lips, looking down at the bag and then back up at Ezri. “I don’t throw,” he said definitively, crossing his arms. 

Ezri shrugged. “Fine. Keep it.” 

Keevan frowned at her, then looked down at the bag again and picked it up, taking out another candy. He hesitantly put in his mouth and wrinkled his nose, puckering his lips as he chewed. “This is awful.” He put another one in his mouth.

Ezri’s smile widened and she looked down at her Padd again. “Then stop eating them.”

“No,” Keevan said, his mouth full. “I refuse.” Perhaps sour Bat’leth shaped candies were more effective than actually thinking about everything he’d done that he’d regretted. Or perhaps not. Either way, he had no plans to cope with his guilt.


	7. Your Soul Can't Be Saved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kilana + don't you dare pity me.  
> Featuring: accidental wlw content and me realizing how much I adore Kilana.

Kilana had never failed a mission before. She’d existed as one of the first Vorta blessed by the Founders. The Founders didn’t reward failure, and she’d been fortunate not to have to learn that the hard way, like so many other Vorta. Now, however, she was acutely aware of what happened to the Vorta who disappointed the Founders. 

She was lying on the bed in what were her temporary accommodations, ankles crossed, staring up at the ceiling of the quarters, rhythmically tapping her index finger on her thigh. Waiting. She wasn’t thinking of herself, good Vorta didn’t think about themselves, and she knew her fate was inevitable. Instead, she was thinking of the Founder, the one whose life had been in her hands, and she hadn’t been able to save them. She’d killed one of her Gods, and whatever her punishment could be, it would never be enough. 

It was a miracle Starfleet had agreed to take her back to her planet, in order to allow her to return both her and the Founder’s remains safely. She should have activated her implant as soon as her Jem’Hadar had, but she knew making sure the Founder’s remains were safe was more important than her punishment. No matter the strength of her guilt. 

The chime of her door snapped her out of her reverie and she sat up abruptly. “Come in,” she called, wondering what else the Starfleet officers could possibly want from her. She’d thought they wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with her, not after the amount of death she’d caused them.

The door slid open, and an officer entered. “It’s Kilana, right?” She asked, and Kilana nodded, standing up. 

“I’m Lieutenant Dax.” She stuck out her hand to shake, and Kilana stared down briefly before accepting the gesture, cocking her head to the side as she did. 

“Is there something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Actually,” Lieutenant Dax began, stepping around Kilana and making herself comfortable on the ottoman at the end of the bed, “I came to ask you a question.”

“I’ll do my best to answer, but I’m afraid if it’s about the Dominion’s-”

Dax held up a hand, cutting her off. “No, that’s not it. I…” she paused, as if she was trying to come up with the best way to phrase her words, “all of us here, we’ve seen enough death here today. On both sides. And as hard as it is not to blame you for that, I know it isn’t entirely your fault. I guess what I’m asking is… will the Founders know it isn’t your fault?” 

Kilana blinked at her, and sat on the other side of the ottoman, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knee. “If I’m not mistaken, Lieutenant, you’re asking me if the Founders will kill me for my failure to- to complete my mission.”

There was a momentary silence, one in which Kilana could vividly hear the thrum of the ship’s engine, the noise as someone walked across the room a floor above her, pacing across the length of the room over and over again, and Lieutenant Dax’s heartbeat, strong and slow, contrasting with Kilana’s own rapidly speeding heartbeat.

“That’s about it, yes,” Dax answered, looking into Kilana’s eyes with an intensity that made her shift in her seat, wishing to tear her eyes away but was entirely unable to. 

“The Founders will punish me for my failure as they see fit. It isn’t my place to speculate how they will go about it,” Kilana said, a rehearsed response, one that she had known was something inevitable, something she’d be saying eventually, but had hoped she’d manage to avoid forever. 

“But they're going to kill you,” Dax prompted.

Kilana gave a partial shrug, finally managing to look away from Dax’s eyes and down at her lap, picking at her cuticle. “Not necessarily.”

“What else might they do?”

“It’s more likely that I’ll be ordered to activate my implant.”

“Implant?” 

Kilana nodded. “All Vorta have a termination implant in our brainstem. Would you like to see it?” She lifted her arm and pushed her hair out of the way, tilting her head to the side. 

Dax leaned forward, and Kilana found the subtle way Dax’s chest brushed against her shoulder awakened a surge of feeling within her, making her heartbeat speed up. “That’s…” Dax began, and didn’t seem to know what to say in response to this information, so instead she stared at Kilana’s neck. Kilana could feel her soft, quiet breaths against her ear.

“You can touch it,” Kilana said, after a minute of silence. She wasn’t sure why she said it, it wasn’t a normal thing to say, but it was out now and she couldn’t very well take it back. “It can only be activated by a Vorta,” she said, turning head back to face Dax as she spoke, and then looking away again because their faces were altogether too close. 

“I- are you sure?” Dax asked, and Kilana found her sensitivity refreshing, and oddly endearing. 

“Some Vorta are more affected when it comes to their implants being touched, but mine has never been activated. In any of my past lives, at least, not yet. So I have nothing to associate it with.” She paused, considering her next words, and then- “Perhaps your touch will serve to make my memories more pleasant. If the Founders choose to continue my line after I have been terminated, I would prefer to remember something more welcoming than my death.” 

Dax seemed to hesitate for a moment, but Kilana didn’t move, she stared at the wall opposite her and waited, until she felt light, warm fingers on the nape of her neck, combing through her hair and pushing it back. 

“It looks like a-” Kilana began, and then gasped, a shock running through her spine as she felt Dax’s finger brush over the implant, and then her hand was gone, she was pulling back. 

“I’m sorry- did I hurt you?” Dax looked genuinely concerned, and it made Kilana’s heart flutter uncomfortably in her chest. 

“No. Not at all. It was just… unexpected. Lieutenant,” she added, after an awkward pause. That addition only served to make her feel more awkward. 

“Call me Jadzia,” she said, and smiled, and at that point Kilana realized Dax’s—Jadzia’s—hand was resting on her leg. It was nice, and she didn’t want her to stop, so she chose not to point it out. “We’ve all been through so much these past days. You and I have both lost people. You’ve lost one of your Gods, and I can’t even _imagine_ how painful it must be. I want you to know that- that if you don’t _want_ to go back, you don’t have to. You don’t have to die. The Federation will grant you asylum, I’m sure.”

“As much as I appreciate it, Lieutenant— _Jadzia—_ I don’t need your sympathy. My duty is to the Founders, come what may.” Kilana briefly allowed herself to envision a future where she abandoned her Gods, and the thought, while highly appealing, especially if Dax was in that future, was squashed nearly immediately by a crushing blow of guilt and fear. It was impossible. She would never do it. 

“Of course,” Dax nodded, and smiled at her, but she could tell it wasn’t genuine. She stood up, brushing a hand through Kilana’s hair as she did so. “But if you change your mind…”

“I’ll find you, Jadzia,” Kilana confirmed, nodding her head once. “Perhaps in a hundred years or more, when we both have new bodies.” She watched as Jadzia’s smile morphed into something real, and the sight made her laugh lightly, in a moment of pure hope. 

“I’ll hold you to that, Kilana.”


	8. For All The Sins You've Ignored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keevan + tortured for information.  
> Featuring: Section 31 (I know everyone thought I'd go for Keevan being tortured by the Founders buuuut I was too galaxy brain for that), moderately graphic depictions of torture via electricity, and Sloan being Evil(tm)

Keevan focused on the sound of machinery above him. It could’ve been a computer system, a cloning tube, a transporter pad, he didn’t know, but he focused on it. A computer’s engine or a coffee maker or anything else, but it didn’t matter what it was, just that it was a constant he could focus on. 

Most of his senses were unreliable, he’d always had terrible eyesight and being chained down made it impossible to move, so he focused on that noise. The one, constant, thrumming sound of machinery. He was fairly certain it was the only thing keeping him alive. 

There had been a short period of time where he’d been fairly certain he’d been in some sort of alternate reality. Because this was the United Federation of Planets, these were the good ones, and it had been a good first few weeks. Before he’d woken up here, and been introduced to a man who said his name was Sloan, the Federation prison hadn’t been so bad. Keevan had been assigned a therapist, gotten addicted to sour candies shaped like Bat’leths, and thrown a gallon of finger paints at a visiting admiral. It was better than any life he could’ve hoped for with the Dominion.

Sloan, if that even was his real name, worked for a secretive branch of Starfleet, called Section 31, and Keevan had resolved to unequivocally loathe him. There wasn’t much to him, not that Keevan had been made privy to, so there wasn’t much to hate, nothing except his stupid fucking face and his stupid fucking smile and the sound of his stupid fucking voice. Which, ironically, was often the way Luaran would refer to Keevan without saying his name.

Involuntarily, Keevan felt himself twitch against the bindings, and a flare of pain shot through his side. Whoever had healed him last time clearly hadn’t been very precise with the dermal regenerator. Either that or they’d been asked to cause him the most pain possible, which wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

The door slid open, and he heard three sets of footsteps enter the room. One of them he knew was Sloan, the other two were both Section 31 officers, one would stand behind him and, Keevan assumed, take notes, while the other was the one who tortured him. He didn’t know if they were human, perhaps Vulcan—less emotion, he assumed—but he’d never looked. He had no plans to, and no need to, put anyone’s face as his torturer save for Sloan.

“Keevan, what does the Dominion have in terms of torture methods?” Sloan had asked one day, a serene smile on his face that made Keevan’s stomach roll in nausea. He hadn’t answered, and Sloan had only taken his silence as a way to talk more.

“I’m human, and I don’t know if you’re aware, but humans have never been afraid to get their hands dirty. We may have elevated ourselves from that over the last hundred years, but some of us still have to do the… dirty work. I’m sure you understand.”

He didn’t. He didn’t understand when defective and rebellious Vorta were tortured by the Founders, and he didn’t understand when anyone else did it. If you were going to kill someone, at least have some modicum of decency about it. No need to draw it out. They would either give you the information you wanted or they wouldn’t. 

Sloan gestured to one of his associates, the one who tortured, and they stepped forward. Keevan tilted his head up to stare at the ceiling, clenching his jaw. He’d never give Sloan the satisfaction of seeing him break. 

It had been nearly a week at this point, and the torture hadn’t much progressed past its initial stages. The collar around Keevan’s neck was composed of four pointed electrical nodes, which, over the past days, had pushed further and further into his skin, creating open sores and making every electric shock burn and spark against his skin. The smell of burnt hair lingered throughout the room constantly. 

The entire thing seemed rather uncreative, and Keevan, after what he believed to be nine days, had pointed this out because his self preservation instincts couldn’t possibly outway his need for sarcastic commentary. And besides, Sloan was an expert at provoking him into speaking, which was likely why he was such a good interrogator. 

He’d had his assistant insert electrical nodes into the heel of each palm, and then the bottoms of his feet. It wasn’t so much the electrical current than ran through his body sporadically that was the most painful, it was the pointed metal inserted into his skin, and the way the nodes shifted each time he was shocked, making the pain of them being inserted fresh all over again. 

Keevan was cold all the time, shivering violently and he didn’t even think that had been Sloan’s intention, but the cold of the room might kill him before the electricity did. As much as he’d hated it for hundreds of years, he’d give nearly anything to be back in the humid, jungle hell that was the Vorta homeworld. Perhaps saying he’d die from the cold was an exaggeration—it wasn’t that cold, but it was just cold enough for him to wish he was wearing more layers. Or, for that matter, any layers. 

As another shock rippled through his body, he wondered, vaguely, and without much dedication to wherever that thought train was going, if the therapist he’d only known for a few weeks, Ezri Tigan, had noticed Keevan had gone missing. He wondered if she had known the whole time, if her interesting stories about her family and her time at Starfleet Academy were even true. 

“This would all be over if you’d just tell me what I want to know, Keevan.” Sloan’s voice brought him back to the present, unfortunately, along with another jolt of electricity that sent an uncontrollable bout of spasms through his muscles. 

“I’ve told you-” Keevan started, and then his mouth stopped working, it felt like his mouth was full of cotton. 

“What’ve you told me, Keevan?”

He hated the fact that Sloan called him by his name, as if they knew each other. Sloan addressed him as if they were old friends sitting down to lunch. He knew what Sloan was doing, because Keevan had done it, because Keevan had been taught all of the tactics and he’d never once thought about what he was doing and he’d done this to people and—another shock jolted him, and he bit the inside of his cheek to prevent from yelling in pain. The taste of blood in his mouth was common, and almost welcome by now. It was the only other comforting sensation aside from the humming of miscellaneous equipment above him.

“What have you told me, Keevan?” Sloan repeated, and at this point, the surging shock that rippled through him was almost dull. Perhaps he was becoming numb.

“Everything,” Keevan managed, letting out a harsh, gasping breath. “Everything, I’ve told you everything.”

“And, funnily enough, _I don’t believe you.”_ Each of his words were punctuated with another shock, and Keevan felt the collar’s prongs digging further into his throat, ripping through layers of skin that had tried to heal over the prongs in the past week. 

It wasn’t often Keevan felt helpless. He hated it, so he tried to avoid it at all costs, and of course he’d been in seemingly hopeless situations before, he’d been killed three times, but _this time,_ this time he wasn’t coming back. He was truly alone, powerless, and weak. As soon as Sloan killed him, assuming if he ever did and didn’t force Keevan to remain in this eternal purgatory forever, it would be the end of the line. If he managed to escape, there was nowhere to go and he’d be killed. If he died, that was it. And if he lived, he’d be tortured for eternity. Which would eventually kill him. And that’d be it. 

So, Keevan was well and truly helpless, for what seemed like the first time in his existence.


	9. And The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dayoun + anger born of worry, featuring a drunken bar fight and some mild softness coupled with Weyoun being cranky.

Damar didn’t usually talk to anyone at the bar, much less start fights with them, but there was something about the way Dukat was standing there. He was just _asking_ to be punched in the face. 

He didn’t know what it was about that night, specifically, as opposed to any other night. Dukat was playing dabo on the other side of the bar, with Weyoun. Damar had been watching them for a while, and the pure, unbridled rage he was feeling towards Dukat was completely inexplicable. Or maybe it wasn’t.

Weyoun wasn’t having fun, Damar could tell when his smile was completely fabricated, and it was now. He was shifting away from Dukat, away from the way his hands were continuously moving to grab at his waist, to touch his shoulder. Dukat was tilting his head down, speaking directly into Weyoun’s ear, and that was when Damar lost it. 

He stood up, drained his glass of kanar and slammed it onto the bar counter, and, with the grace of a man who had been drinking solidly for the better part of five hours, strode over to the dabo tables, and punched Dukat directly in the face. Or at least, he attempted to. As it turned out, he punched a bar guest who had happened to be walking in front of him at the worst possible second, or maybe Damar’s aim was off, but either way, he had started a fight, and the next thing he was at least partially conscious of, the stranger had kicked him in the chest, knocking him into the dabo table. 

Damar hadn’t gotten into a bar fight, at least not at Quark’s, yet. In fact, the last time he’d gotten into a real bar fight was likely back on Cardassia. He couldn’t remember what it been then, or who or why, but he doubted it was something as stupid as getting into a fight with a stranger because he was _trying_ to punch his superior officer but he missed and hit said stranger, and the reason he was trying to punch his superior officer was because he was sexually harassing Damar’s very vulnerable-looking (even if he was, objectively, terrifying and often murderous, he was physically weak, and no amount of objections to the opposite would convince Damar otherwise) pseudo-boyfriend whom he despised most of the time, but cared enough about to not want to see him in that situation. 

He _doubted_ he’d ever been in this situation before. But he wouldn’t remove it from the realm of possibility, there was always a chance he’d been in this exact scenario and simply blacked out and didn’t remember it. 

But none of this was the point, the point was that his back was killing him from the awkward way he’d landed on the dabo table, and at least one of his fingers was broken or dislocated from that punch. And the point was also that he’d at least managed to separate Dukat from Weyoun, so his mission had been accomplished. And it was a good thing his mission was accomplished, because he was forced into unconsciousness several seconds later, whether by a particularly hard punch or simply the amount of kanar he’d imbibed, it didn’t particularly matter.

He woke in the infirmary, to the face of a very displeased Vorta, and briefly wondered if he could get away with pretending to still be asleep in order to avoid a confrontation. That hope was destroyed when Weyoun cleared his throat, crossing his arms. 

“What the _hell_ were you doing? I know you were trying to hit Dukat, and thank the Founders your drunken haze was enough to throw off your aim, and Dukat happens to be too stupid to have noticed.” Weyoun’s voice was sharp, every word laced with venom as his eyes flashed with anger, like he was wishing Damar had been more irreparably injured in the barely-fight. 

“I was drunk,” Damar said blandly, hoping that excuse would be enough to absolve him of all sins and Weyoun’s malice would be directed elsewhere. It usually worked, but this time Weyoun was clearly unconvinced by it. As Damar sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and standing, Weyoun’s face tightened almost imperceptibly, violet eyes staring daggers at him. “I’m sorry?” He added, tone lilting up in a questioning manner.

“You’re _sorry._ You could’ve been executed for that,” Weyoun hissed. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“What’s wrong with _you?”_ Damar snapped, trying to match Weyoun’s glower but feeling fairly inferior. 

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you let Dukat get away with that? Don’t tell me it’s because you don’t care, because I know you do, I _saw_ you, so why do you let him treat you like that?” Damar snapped, and Weyoun looked for a moment like he might back down, but then his expression of disappointment and distaste strengthen, and Damar prepared himself to be told how wrong and idiotic he was for caring about Weyoun’s comfort.

“Gul Dukat is necessary for keeping the bond between the Dominion and Cardassia strong. Might I suggest you try to keep your jealousy in check?” 

_“Jealousy?”_ Damar blanched, taking half a step back. “You think I was jealous? That’s why I did that?”

Weyoun blinked, clearly confused but attempting to hide it. “Of course. You and I have an intimate relationship, and seeing me and Gul Dukat engaged in-”

“This wasn’t about _us,_ Weyoun. This was about _you._ Why can’t you see that?” Damar sighed, running a hand through his hair and wondering if he was really going to commit himself to saying the words he was thinking. “Do you know how much it kills me when you act like you don’t matter? It’s one thing when the Founder treats you like an object, but I can’t _stand it_ when you objectify _yourself._ Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you see that you matter to me, and if you aren’t going to care about yourself, _I_ will.” He forced himself to stop talking, taking a long, deep breath to calm himself.

Weyoun was silent for a moment, and his expression slowly morphed from one of murderous malice to that of a mix between resignation and something else—pity, maybe, or possibly a hint of something hopeful. He lowered his arms to his sides, briefly looking away from Damar and then meeting his eyes again. 

“Just… don’t do it again, Damar,” he said finally, and strode past him without another word. 

Damar watched him go, watched the door open and then slide shut behind him, and stared at the space where he’d been until a nurse approached him and asked if he was feeling alright. Then he made his way back to Quark’s bar and drank until he didn’t remember that look on Weyoun’s face anymore.


	10. Is Well Aware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dayoun + insomnia and hostage situation,  
> Featuring: sleep paralysis, some vague mentions of alcohol abuse, and a lot of uncharacteristic emotions coming from Damar but yknow what he's just really in love ok. its not ooc hes just in love.

Kanar helped him sleep, it was a habit by now. In fact, Damar couldn’t sleep without it. He’d only recently discovered kanar helped him sleep, when he was going about his day, exhausted as usual, and had gone to bed after finishing off his third bottle of kanar, and he actually fell asleep, and stayed that way throughout the night. 

The problem was that there was not enough kanar in the world to help him sleep the night following the morning when Weyoun had been on his way out of his quarters and been taken hostage by a group of rebelling Cardassian soldiers who, as of this moment, had yet to be identified. 

They would’ve been identified sooner if the Founder had prioritized his rescue. As it was, Damar had been forced to, essentially, submit a project proposal and business plan explaining why rescuing Weyoun was good for the Dominion. 

“Aren’t you concerned he might not have access to his termination implant?” Damar asked on the first day, and the Founder had only waved a hand, unconcerned, and ordered Weyoun’s replacement. Luckily, there was a bit of a delay within the cloning facility, there had been some attempted sabotage and the Weyoun line had been one of the lines which had been compromised, and it would take several days to be sure it wasn’t too damaged to activate his newest clone. It allowed Damar to approach the Founder the second day, having not slept a wink, with a communication from the group who had taken Weyoun, along with a visual image of him, still very much alive, and very much unable to reach his termination implant. 

“They’re torturing him for information,” he’d said, showing her the Padd, to which she nodded, unconcerned. 

“All of our Vorta are trained thoroughly for these situations. Weyoun would never betray any Dominion secrets, no matter the pain.”

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, but Damar stubbornly remained for several more seconds, trying to come up with a protest. “But the torture…” he began, and then trailed off upon realizing the uselessness of his argument, he couldn’t very well appeal to her sympathy and emotion, she might view Weyoun as an important tool, but she would never concern herself with his emotional state. As far as she was concerned, he was always happy as long as he was serving the Dominion, and that was all that mattered. He gave her a curt nod and left the room.

That night, he laid in his bed and stared at the ceiling until the sun rose. He was exhausted, but he left the comfort (although it was beginning to feel much more like a prison now) of his bed and attempted to start his day normally. 

The cloning facility’s repairs were progressing quickly, a new Weyoun was likely going to be activated within the next three to four days, possibly less. The thought of meeting a new Weyoun before Weyoun Five was even dead was a concept that led Damar to drink even more heavily. There wasn’t much else to do to occupy himself with. He missed Weyoun, missed his overtly flirtatious comments and his smile that at the same time frightened and excited Damar, missed the snide commentary and the way he’d look at Damar, almost concerned, when he drank himself into oblivion. 

He didn’t sleep that night either, visions of Weyoun, bloodied and broken, forced itself into his mind, and at one point he was fairly certain the visions manifested themself in his quarters physically, and he was unable to move, forced to only stare at the unmoving form of Weyoun, who looked right back at him, eyes wide with fear in a way Damar had never seen, blood dripping from his body and pooling on the floor. 

By the time it was morning, he had resolved to convince the Founder to at least _attempt_ to rescue Weyoun, and he was fairly certain he had an idea for it. 

“Founder,” Damar said, and he grated out the word with as much malice and distaste as he thought he could get away with, “I would like to speak to you about Weyoun, if you have the time.” 

The Founder sighed, as if she was tired of hearing Damar complaining to her, as if Weyoun meant nothing and Damar meant even less, but she gestured for him to continue. 

“I believe you that Weyoun would never betray the Dominion’s secrets, no matter the situation,” he started, clenching and unclenching his jaw, trying to summon at least an ounce of that confidence Weyoun always seemed to have. “But I do have some concerns, which I hadn’t expressed to you earlier.”

He paused to swallow, shifting on his feet as he attempted to phrase his words in the best way possible. “Weyoun was taken hostage by Cardassian soldiers, who have no plans on letting him die. They want to use him either as a bargaining chip to get information, or torture him into getting information. I know you’re hesitant to attempt a rescue, I understand, the loss of soldiers would be more expensive than simply activating a new clone, but… I am acutely familiar with Cardassian interrogations.”

“You think they will somehow find a way to make him tell Dominion secrets?” The Founder asked, and Damar could tell he wasn’t convincing her. 

“Not exactly. Cardassians are experts in… breaking you during interrogations. I’ve seen the effects these interrogations have, and they last for years afterward. And by _last,_ I do mean that, most of the time, they are essentially driven insane.” Damar stopped, watching the Founder as her expression morphed slightly, perhaps in understanding. “I have some concerns that… if a new clone is activated, because every clone has the memories and experiences of the first, the new Weyoun will be affected by this interrogation, and his entire line will likely be… corrupted. Which I imagine would be far worse for the war than the loss of soldiers during a rescue mission.”

The Founder appraised him, and Damar did his best not to shift under her cold gaze. “Weyoun has a remarkable ability to compartmentalize his experiences, perhaps better than any other Vorta,” she finally said, and Damar sighed.

“But is that a risk you’re really willing to take? Think of the cost if he _is_ unable to compartmentalize it. The longer he’s left there, the harder it becomes for him to not break, and if a new clone is activated and we forget about him, he could be kept alive for months afterward. It could corrupt the whole line of Weyouns.”

There was a long silence, and Damar was very close to simply falling asleep on his feet, the exhaustion creeping up on him like a deadly viper, before the Founder responded once again. “I want the coordinates of his location determined. If possible, I want him terminated rather than rescued. It would be far less costly to our soldiers simply to destroy the location he is being kept in, and end this all quickly.”

Damar nodded once. “Of course. I’ll handle it all.” He left immediately, and neglected to tell the Founder he’d already tracked down the coordinates the messages had been sent from. If she didn’t know, it only provided him with more time to plan a real rescue mission. He would _not_ be killing Weyoun, not if he could help it. 

********

It was almost remarkable how easily Weyoun’s rescue came along, Damar hadn’t allowed himself or been able to sleep for nearly a week, but now that Weyoun was safely on his way back to Cardassia Prime, he hoped that meant he’d finally be able to sleep again. 

He was wrong. 

“Damar!” Weyoun said, stepping off the transporter pad and standing altogether too close to Damar, as he often did, seemingly for no reason. “How kind of you to greet me upon my arrival.” 

Damar resisted the urge to do something ludicrous, like hug him, and instead stood still, trying not to let his gaze trickle down Weyoun’s body, searching for injuries and blood, the way he looked in his nighttime hallucinations. Weyoun was perfectly fine, of course, a wide smile on his face that, as usual, left Damar with an unsettling combination of warmth and dread. 

“I’d like to speak to the Founder,” he said, interrupting Damar’s examination of his physical and mental state, “if she isn’t too busy.” 

“Of course,” Damar nodded. “I’ll walk with you.”

The Founder barely acknowledged Weyoun, whose eyes were visible shining with grateful tears as he entered, bowing his head down.

“Founder,” he said, voice full of pure adoration, “I apologize for taking up your time, but I want to thank you personally for allowing my rescue. It wasn’t necessary, and yet you, in your endless kindness and mercy, felt it essential to bring me back safely. I cannot express all of the gratitude I feel.”

Damar had to resist rolling his eyes. He knew the Founder wouldn’t admit she’d planned to kill him, and had only allowed Damar to stage a rescue with the hope that Weyoun would be killed quickly and she could move on without worrying about the trauma of being tortured, but it still managed to piss him off when she took the credit for Weyoun’s safe return before dismissing him. 

They left together, but Weyoun went to his own quarters and Damar to his, and he tried to sleep. He couldn’t, as much as he wanted to. After several hours of lying in bed, the image of Weyoun appeared again, and he couldn’t tell if it was in his mind or he was really there, dripping blood and silently begging for Damar’s help. Damar was frozen in place, fear rippling through him, for so long he thought it might nearly be morning by the time he was able to move. 

The computer told him the time was two in the morning, and he sat up shakily, and left his quarters and made his way down the hall without thinking about where he was going. He reached Weyoun’s door and hesitated for only a moment, before pressing the door chime and alerting him of his presence. There was a short moment of silence before he heard a muffled voice call out, _come in,_ and the door slid open.

“Lights, thirty percent,” Weyoun muttered as Damar stepped in, letting the door shut behind him. “Damar?” Weyoun sat up, and Damar was immediately focused on how messy his hair was, loose curls falling on his forehead and some still sticking up due to residual hair product Weyoun clearly hadn’t bothered to wash out before sleep. “Is something wrong?” He asked, and before Damar could respond, Weyoun was standing up, and Damar was entranced by the violet-tinted (and very sheer) robe he was wearing.

“Um,” he said awkwardly, trying not to stare at Weyoun but finding it nearly impossible, “I… I wanted to see you. Nothing’s wrong.”

“You… wanted to see me? Worried I might get kidnapped again?” Weyoun stepped close to him, until they were directly in front of each other.

“Something like that, yes. I, ah,” he hesitated, unused to being so honest, and especially unused to being honest with Weyoun of all people, “I’ve been worried about you. I know how Cardassian interrogations can… well, I’ve seen the after effects, and I was concerned it might damage your psyche, and all of your subsequent clones, if you were left to be tortured, so I asked the Founder to allow me to plan to rescue you, and she wanted you killed quickly but I told the Jem’Hadar to bring you back alive no matter what, and now that you’re back, I want to be sure—you were gone for a week, and that might not be long, but I was concerned that…” he stopped frowning. “I think… did I say something I shouldn’t have? I think I may have said something I shouldn’t have.” He’d like to blame the sleep deprivation, but honestly, Damar had never been an expert in the art of _knowing how to speak well,_ and this was just another example of that. 

_“You_ disobeyed the Founder to rescue me?”

“Ah. That’s what I said.” Damar sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose and squinting his eyes shut. 

“Why?” Weyoun asked, and when Damar opened his eyes, Weyoun was staring at him, wide eyed and confused, tilting his head. 

“Because I- I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t slept since you’ve been gone. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if I knew you’d been left there, or if you’d been killed and I could’ve done something to prevent it,” he admitted, speaking quickly as if that would make his emotions vanish more quickly. 

“Damar…” Weyoun said, and reached out a hand to touch his arm gently. He seemed on the verge of saying something deeply profound, but instead he simply tugged Damar over to his bed. “No wonder you look awful. You haven’t slept in a week. Come here.”


	11. That He Is Adored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weyoun with the Founder, forced to kneel/bow.  
> Featuring: Weyoun causing problems on purpose and the Founder regretting the moment she created him.

Weyoun was summoned to the Founder’s quarters only one day after Damar had managed to escape the Dominion. He didn’t think much of it, there was no way she or anyone else could possibly know of Weyoun’s involvement in Damar’s betrayal. As soon as he entered her quarters, however, he was made aware that this was not the case. Her stare was freezing cold and was nearly enough to stop Weyoun in the doorway, to make him turn around and run away and never come back again.

“I would never have allowed this… relationship with Legate Damar to continue if I had known he would corrupt you this way,” the Founder began, and Weyoun shook, but tried desperately to cover it by placing his hands behind his back.

“Founder, I would never-” He began, a desperate lie forming and falling halfway out of his mouth before it froze on his tongue.

“Do not lie to me, Weyoun.”

Weyoun inhaled deeply, a sob buried deep in his throat. “Founder-”

“Kneel,” she said, her voice crueler and colder than Weyoun had ever heard it, “kneel and tell me he means nothing to you.”

His knees shook, and the compulsion to obey nearly overtook him. “Where is he?” He asked, and the Founder seemed shocked that he hadn’t immediately obeyed her command, in fact she even seemed to hesitate for a moment. 

“That is none of your concern.” 

Weyoun breathed a sigh of relief. “He got away.” Damar was safe, if he wasn’t, she would have told him he was dead, or brought him in just to make Weyoun watch as she killed him. So he no longer had a reason to keep himself alive, it was over.

The Founder’s arm twisted, morphing into a long, snakelike tentacle, and it whipped across Weyoun’s face, so quickly he didn’t even realize what had happened at first, until he felt a sharp pain on his cheek, and warm blood trickled down his jaw, staining his coat. 

“I created you, Weyoun, and you will not throw away my love for the words of one traitor.” She extended her arm again, and this time it whipped across his chest, cutting through his clothes and leaving a deep, diagonal gash across his skin. He gasped but made no other sound, staying as still as possible. “Kneel.” 

Weyoun closed his eyes for a moment, and then turned his head up, looked her directly in the eyes, and curled his hands into fists so tightly his nails dug into his skin. He inhaled through his nose,held the breath, and then exhaled slowly. “No.”

“No?” She repeated, as if Weyoun had just spoken a word she’d never heard of in her entire existence. And, as far as Weyoun could remember, he’d never said it to her. Not in that way. 

“No,” Weyoun confirmed, and for a moment he had a vivid vision of simply repeating the word  _ no _ over and over again, back and forth from him to the Founder, and the thought of it nearly made him laugh out loud. In fact, a smile did somehow manage to force itself onto his face. “No,” he said again, just to really let it sink in.

The Founder reached to her console and pushed a button. The door behind Weyoun slid open, and he heard the footsteps of two Jem’Hadar soldiers enter behind him. They grabbed him by the shoulders, and Weyoun summed up enough dignity to at least struggle as they forced him to his knees. Not that it did much, in the long run, aside from make him feel a bit more like he’d actually done something.

“Weyoun. What has he done to you that made you betray me?” The Founder asked, and she stepped forward, her arm transforming back into normal. She reached down and took Weyoun’s chin, holding it gently at first, and then forcing it up to look at her. “Did he hurt you, Weyoun? You can tell me. You can trust me.”

Weyoun resisted the urge to talk back, to ask her what exactly he should trust her for. After everything he’d been through not only in the past year, but his entire existence, all his lives, hundreds of years, the Founders had given him nothing, and in comparison Damar had given him everything. So of course Weyoun would lay down his life for him. It simply made sense. For the amount of times Weyoun had died for beings who didn’t care one bit about him, he felt he deserved to die for something else, just once. He remembered what Damar had said, that if Weyoun didn’t make it out, he’d activate his new clone just to kill him for worrying Damar so terribly, and then he’d activate another one and they could pick up where they left off. Weyoun allowed himself to smile at the memory, and closed his eyes for a moment to bask in it.

“Tell me,” she said, digging her nails into his chin, and Weyoun bit his tongue to prevent from crying out.

_ Maybe it’s because of this _ , Weyoun’s brain wanted to say, but he wasn’t quite able to get the words out. It wasn’t self preservation, it was just that residual worship lingering somewhere within his complicated set of mixed up emotions. Instead, he said nothing, and continued to say nothing, and would stay silent until his execution. He wouldn’t give the Founder the satisfaction, he wouldn’t give any of them the satisfaction, not anymore.


	12. Never Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keevan + mouth stitched shut and pleading.  
> Featuring: me somehow yet again managing to insert Weyoun's catholic guilt into a fic where Weyoun isn't even in it, some beautiful mouth embroidery, and Keevan suffering yet again. This was supposed to be longer but I tried to rewrite it four different times and this is the only version I ended up not mad at, so. That's what you get.

The Vorta’s powers of compulsion weren’t well known, it was something they tried to keep hidden, especially from outsiders. Making diplomatic decisions with a species which had the power to convince you to do things you didn’t want to do wasn’t an ideal decision, and the Dominion wanted to keep their advantage. 

Unfortunately, after Keevan’s third escape attempt nearly succeeded, Sloan seemed to realize that perhaps he had a previously unknown power. He could’ve simply gagged Keevan, but apparently that wasn’t good enough for him. It wasn’t  _ permanent  _ enough.

“You really don’t want to do this,” Keevan said, watching Sloan thread the needle with the precision of an alcoholic with worse vision than a Vorta. He watched as Sloan hesitated, his fingers pausing for a moment just as he managed to get the thread through the needle. 

Sloan looked up at him briefly, tying off the thread and examining the needle. “I don’t want to be doing this?” He asked, leaning forward and bringing the needle directly in front of Keevan’s eye, so close that when he closed his eyes instinctively, he felt his eyelash brush against it. 

“No. No, you don’t. You don’t want to-”

“Persuade me,” Sloan said, and Keevan opened his eyes as he felt the needle move away. 

“If you-” Keevan began, trying to muster all of the power he had and force it into his voice, before he was forced to silence himself, closing his mouth and clenching his teeth to prevent from crying out. The needle slowly pushed into the skin of his lip, and then pushed out again, and the pain of the thread forcing its way through his lip was nearly enough to make him lose concentration, but he stayed silent. 

“Oh, please. Don’t let my work distract you,” Sloan said, as if he was embroidering a nice needlepoint pillow and not slowly sewing up Keevan’s only means of survival, the only power he had left anymore.  _ “Persuade  _ me,” he repeated.

“I-” Keevan began, and inhaled quickly, refusing to let himself scream, and instead biting his lip in that same familiar place he always bit over the past months, as the needle went through his top lip. 

“But be careful. Can’t open your mouth too wide,” Sloan said, pulling the thread through and closing the first stitch. 

Blood seeped into Keevan’s mouth and, without any regard for decorum, he spat it out, directly into Sloan’s face. It was one of the few victories he had left, and it would’ve made him grin in satisfaction if it wasn’t torture just to move his mouth.

“Nothing to say, I guess.” Sloan wiped the blood of his cheek and grimaced, then went back to work with the needle. “If you’d bothered giving us any  _ useful  _ information in between all your little games and misdirects and failed escape attempts, I might not have to do this, but you forced my hand.”

Sloan reminded him of the Founders. Always putting the blame on him. Granted, sometimes he really did deserve it. Keevan could be ruthless and uncaring, he might make others die for him or fail a mission just so he wouldn’t have to lift a finger, but the Founders would find a way to blame him for things even out of his control. Things that were never even close to being his fault. 

Another stitch went in, the thread tightened, and Keevan tried to open his mouth, maybe to beg for mercy, perhaps to pledge loyalty to the Founders in hopes they’d rescue him, but the pain made him stop immediately. 

Pain and the unpleasant reminder that no one would save him from this. And most certainly not the Founders. Besides, Keevan made it a point never to pray to them. It was pathetic. They created the Vorta to worship them, and punished them for stepping one toe out of line. He remembered the way Weyoun used to plead for forgiveness whenever he managed to find himself in Keevan’s bed again, the way his hands would shake as he kneeled at the altar that Keevan himself had never once used. 

He wondered, as another stitch was pulled through and the thread was tightened, if he’d used that altar like he’d been created to do, if he would still be in this position. Probably. The Founders didn’t care about him. They certainly didn’t care about Weyoun, no matter how many  _ last times  _ and  _ it’ll never happen again’s _ ended with him praying for absolution that would never come. 

“Your eyes have glazed over,” Sloan commented conversationally, and Keevan was suddenly acutely aware of the blood running out of his mouth and down his chin, pooling in the curves of his ear and then down into his hair. “I hope you’re still conscious of the pain. Otherwise, there’s really no reason for us to do this with you awake, is there?” He was quiet for a second, and Keevan felt the needle push against his skin again, but it didn’t go through. 

The next thing Keevan was conscious of was waking up. He didn’t remember how Sloan had knocked him out, or if he even had. Maybe he had just fallen unconscious, another sign of his weakness.

There was a throbbing pain in his mouth, and it took him several moments to realize he could move his arms, that he was lying on the floor but had complete freedom of movement, with the exception of his mouth. 

He was alone in the room, and sat up, running a hand over his lips. The stitches were neat, even, precise. If he were capable of speaking, he would’ve complimented Sloan on his embroidery skills the next time he saw him. 

The hopelessness of being unable to speak hadn’t quite sunk in yet, the feeling of having his last simulacrum of power taken away. But it would, he was sure it would, and he’d truly be left with nothing, unable to die. The loss of his voice was the last thing Sloan had needed to take away, and he’d done it in the most humiliating way possible.


	13. The Excess Of Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dayoun + torture devices and thwarted escape.  
> Featuring: confusing relationship dynamics, a medieval torture device that I'm pretending was invented by the Dominion, and um. some more confusing relationship dynamics.

“Oh, Damar,” Weyoun said, a wistful smile on his face that Damar was certain was a complete lie. “Why would you do this?” He asked, kneeling in front of him, and if Damar had the freedom of movement, he would’ve kicked him in the face. 

“I promised you the world.” Weyoun paused to laugh lightly, reaching out a hand to brush through Damar’s hair, but immediately pulled back when Damar moved his head away. “I promised you as many worlds as you wanted, in fact. We were-” he broke off, and Damar had to resist rolling his eyes at Weyoun’s exaggerated despair. “We were going to take them together.”

“I _never_ wanted that, Weyoun, and you know it. I never wanted _any_ of this, and you don’t care. You’ve never cared, so stop. Stop pretending you do and just end it already.”

“Did I really mean _nothing_ to you?” Weyoun asked, eyes shining with unshed tears that Damar had to continuously remind himself were artificial. 

“I could ask you the same question,” Damar responded, looking Weyoun in the eyes as he spat the words out, mustering all the hatred and anger he felt for the Dominion and throwing it at Weyoun.

A tear slipped down Weyoun’s cheek, and Damar’s hand moved without thought, extending to wipe it away softly, a force of habit, but his movement was halted by the chains that kept him against the wall. Weyoun seemed to notice this, and slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a key and unlocking Damar’s chains. 

As soon as he did, Damar lunged forward, knocking Weyoun to the floor and gripping him by the throat. The whimper Weyoun let out was nearly enough to make him pull back and apologize, but the hatred reappeared almost instantly and his grip around Weyoun’s throat tightened. For several long seconds, he watched as Weyoun fruitlessly struggled, tears streaming freely down his face now.

“D- Dama- _Damar,”_ Weyoun gasped, and seemed to be unable to say anything else. His kicks at Damar’s chest grew weaker, and a look of fear that was too strong to be a lie came over his face, and the look shook Damar enough to let him go. 

Weyoun sat up immediately, choking and gripping his throat, kicking his legs and pushing himself backwards. 

“I’m-” Damar began, and couldn’t seem to manage to finish the sentence. “Weyoun, I-” He wasn’t sorry. As much as he wished he was, as much as he wished Weyoun’s look of fear and horror was enough to convince him to be sorry, it wasn’t.

“After _everything-”_ Weyoun whispered, his voice hoarse. “Everything, Damar, _everything. Please_ don’t let it end like this. _Please.”_ Begging as if he were the one on the edge of execution and not Damar. As if, after everything, Damar had been the one to betray _him,_ as if Weyoun hadn’t been the one to alert the Jem’Hadar of Damar’s departure immediately after reading the letter Damar had _stupidly_ left for him.

“You caused this,” Damar said after a long silence. “Don’t try to blame me for this when you could’ve let me go. It didn’t have to end this way, but it _did_ and it’s _done,_ and it’s _your fault.”_

Weyoun flinched back as if Damar had told him something he didn’t already know, and he said nothing for nearly a minute. “I never would have…” He stopped, rubbing at his throat, along the marks Damar’s hands had made. “They plan to- to force information from you,” he said. “I didn’t know- Damar, I didn’t know, I thought they would only-”

“Kill me quickly?” Damar finished. “And that was an ideal outcome for you?”

“I’m so sorry, Damar.” Weyoun's eyes were downcast, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at him. 

Damar scoffed, turning away. “You’re not. You’re not sorry for anything you’ve done. But _I_ am sorry I… I’m sorry I left you that damned letter. It was idiotic of me to think that you- to think you cared.”

Weyoun opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it just as quickly. A thump sounded outside and they both jumped, Weyoun scrambling up and adjusting his clothes, running a hand across the marks on his neck once again, before the cell door opened and Weyoun was joined by two Jem’Hadar guards, one of whom was holding some sort of device Damar would like to not become acquainted with. Weyoun turned to look at it and took it from the Jem'Hadar, turning it over in his hands. 

“This is…” he began, and then swallowed. It took a few seconds for Damar to notice, but his hands trembled as he held it. “I, ah, assumed that- was this made here, recently?” 

The Jem’Hadar nodded in response, and Weyoun’s face tightened. “How _delightful_ to know that some of the Dominion’s more… imaginative devices are still in use. I was under the impression some of these techniques had been abandoned several hundred years ago.”

“What is it?” Damar asked, and the Jem’Hadar moved forward a step, as if to kick Damar for speaking out of turn, but Weyoun raised a hand, waving him away. 

“Please. Wait outside,” he said, glancing behind him as he watched the Jem’Hadar leave. 

“What is it?” Damar repeated, staring apprehensively at the thing in Weyoun’s hands. It looked like some sort of a prong, perhaps a quarter of an arm’s length long, with spikes on either side. A collar of some sort was attached to the middle of it, and with the way Weyoun continuously turned it over in his hands, he seemed to be overtly familiar with it. 

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Weyoun said, and the words made Damar want to lash out again, to kick Weyoun into the rock wall of his cell, but then Weyoun moved. He sat down on the other side of the cell from Damar and raised his head, as if to look up at the ceiling. Damar opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again just as quickly. Weyoun tightened the device around his own neck, forcing one of the spikes under his chin and the other against his sternum. 

“It is meant,” Weyoun said, and Damar watched, almost in fascination, as a bloom of purple blood formed under Weyoun’s chin and ran down the spike, where it joined the blood that fell from his chest and stained his clothes, “to do this. I’m sure you can see why it’s painful.” 

The expression on Weyoun’s face was impossible to see with his head tilted up the way it was, and Damar followed his sudden compulsion to lean forward, raising himself up on his knees and leaning over to look at Weyoun’s face. His tears had vanished, replaced with a look that seemed vacant, void of any feeling. 

Damar reached over and ran his hand across Weyoun’s face, brushing his cheek and across the curve of his jaw. Weyoun’s eyes fluttered closed and he twitched beneath Damar’s fingers. He leaned down and kissed him, slowly at first and then with more force, and he felt Weyoun’s hands on him, pushing him back, and he broke the kiss. Weyoun’s eyes were open, wide and full of so many emotions that Damar had never been able to identify. 

“You-” Weyoun began, and Damar realized immediately his mistake, pulling back to look at his neck, where the spike had driven into his skin. He swiped his finger along the blood, examining it for a moment, before, driven by nothing but vindictive spite, placed his thumb just below Weyoun’s bottom lip and pushed down. 

Weyoun gasped, gripping Damar’s wrist tightly, eyes widening, before Damar removed his hand. He reached behind Weyoun’s neck pulled off the collar, only noticing he’d dragged it through Weyoun’s skin as he removed it after it was too late to be more gentle. He threw it across the room where it clattered to the floor.

“Damar,” Weyoun said, lowering his head and looking at him. “I-”

Instead of allowing Weyoun to finish whatever it was he'd been about to say, Damar kissed him again, running a hand through his hair and tugging it lightly. 

“Damar,” Weyoun repeated, speaking through the kiss, “Damar, I’m so sorry.” 

“Express your remorse by shutting up,” Damar responded, and smiled as Weyoun offered no retaliation and simply wrapped his arms around Damar’s neck and pulled him close, “for once in your life,” he added, and Weyoun bit his bottom lip for that.


	14. Because The Grabbing Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dayoun + knife to the throat and strapped to an operating table  
> Featuring: I'm honestly not sure I wrote this at 3 am and i haven't looked at it since sO your guess is as good as mine,

Weyoun had never liked hospitals. Hospitals, medbays, clinics, it all meant the same thing: he was going to die. Vorta were expendable, so effort never went into healing them, and most of Weyoun’s deaths had occurred in hospitals while surrounded by equipment that could have easily been used to save him. 

And here he was again. The only difference was that this time, instead of leaving him to die, he was going to be left to live in agony. 

“Why are you doing this?” Weyoun asked, struggling against the straps that held his arms and legs down. 

He wasn’t given an answer, the Breen in the hospital room was silent, and Weyoun couldn’t even tell if they were looking at him or not. This really should’ve been a simple meeting, but somewhere along the way, it had gone wrong, and now he was trapped in the medbay on a Breen ship, with no way to escape. The Founders, in all their wisdom, had either not considered that after the Dominion lost the war, the Breen might be angry, or they had, and hoped allowing the Breen to kill a Vorta diplomat might work as a peace offering. Either way, Weyoun had no hope of rescue. So Weyoun Nine would probably have a very short life.

Much like his previous four incarnations. 

He watched the Breen leave the room, and wondered how long he would be made to wait before they came back. He wasn’t sure what he hated more; being tortured for hours, or the agony of lying on the operating table for even longer, with no way of knowing what might happen next, just waiting to die.

He didn’t have to wait long, because the Breen was back only a few minutes later, or perhaps it was a different one, it wasn’t like Weyoun could tell when they refused to speak to him. 

Weyoun watched as the Breen picked up a scalpel that sat on the edge of the table next to him, and then set it down again, running their gloved fingers across it like they were considering what to do next. 

Then, however, the Breen did something Weyoun had never once in his existence seen a Breen do, they reached up and removed their helmet. And Weyoun realized it wasn’t a Breen at all, and for a split second a flood of relief flowed through him, before he realized he was in just as much danger as he had been before. Perhaps more. 

_ “Damar?”  _ His eyes widened briefly, and then he went right back to struggling to get off of the table he was still trapped to, albeit a lot more desperately than before. 

Instead of saying anything, Damar picked the scalpel back up and Weyoun was fairly certain he made a rather unnatural noise of fear. There was something about the idea of being murdered by Damar that Weyoun took much more seriously than the idea of being murdered by a nameless Breen kidnapper. 

He moved the scalpel towards Weyoun’s arm, and he jumped away as much as he could, twisting his arm against the bindings. 

“Damar- Damar, please, don’t-” He was cut off by Damar’s hand over his mouth. 

“Will you shut up?” He asked. “Shut up and stay still.”

Weyoun made a rather embarrassing whimpering noise, but eventually nodded in understanding, and Damar let go of him. 

Damar used the scalpel to cut off the restraints on Weyoun’s legs, and did the same for the ones on his chest and arms. 

Hastily, Weyoun sat up, scrambling back. “I- you died. They told me you died.”

“Not quite,” Damar responded, setting the scalpel back down and taking a step back. “I thought I might’ve.” He paused, meeting Weyoun’s eyes. “I almost hoped you’d be the one to kill me.”

“Why- why are you- why are you here? Why did you-” He didn’t even know how to finish the questions of how and why Damar had risked his life to infiltrate a Breen ship just to save  _ Weyoun,  _ of all people. 

“They took me prisoner, too. I didn’t know you were here.” His eyes shifted to the scalpel again, and Weyoun watched as he swallowed uncomfortably. “When I saw the other prisoner was you, I… did think about killing you. Probably should’ve.”

There was a silence, then, as they stared at each other, and Weyoun didn’t know what to say. He still wanted to ask  _ why,  _ why Damar had decided not to kill him and instead chose to rescue him, but he stayed quiet, and then, using his one and only ounce of self preservation, took on step off the operating table and lunged towards the scalpel to grab it, nearly falling over as he did so. Damar, however, was faster than he was.

He pushed Weyoun back against the wall with an arm on his chest, knocking some things off supply shelves as he did so, and, quicker than Weyoun could possibly hope to react, had the scalpel pressed against his neck. 

“And  _ that _ is why I should have killed you,” Damar said, and the scalpel pressed further against Weyoun’s skin, far enough that he felt a sharp prick of pain, before it moved back again and he could breathe. 

“I think,” Weyoun whispered, “that given the circumstances, and the fact that you are… physically stronger than I am, you should let me have the scalpel.”

“Absolutely not.”

It was worth a shot anyway, Weyoun supposed. There was always a chance Damar might once again fall for his charms. An alarm blared above them and they both jumped, but Damar didn’t back away from Weyoun, who he still had pinned to the wall. 

“I think they realized you escaped,” Weyoun said, trying to prompt him into moving.

“That is probably an accurate assumption, yes,” Damar agreed, his voice soft. 

“So…?” Weyoun widened his eyes, going for a  _ ‘what are you waiting for, we need to go’  _ expression that he wasn’t sure got across well with a knife at his throat. 

Damar didn’t answer, and continued staring at Weyoun in silence, before he finally moved, leaning forward and pressing his lips to Weyoun’s. The scalpel dug back into his throat as Weyoun leaned into the kiss almost immediately. He wrapped an arm across Damar’s waist and made a small noise of pain that quickly turned into something else entirely when their tongues tangled together, turning the kiss messy and passionate in an instant. 

When what seemed like an eternity had passed, Damar broke the kiss, breathing heavily, and wiped his mouth. 

“We should go,” he said, pulling away. “They’ll find us here soon.”

“Damar?” Weyoun asked, voice several octaves higher than it usually was, “what the hell was that?” 

Glancing back at him, Damar looked just as shocked by what they’d done as Weyoun did. “I have no idea. But we really need to go.”


	15. Always Grab What They Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keevan + I'll punish your friend for your failure  
> Featuring: oof ouchie sorry Weyoun, yikes.

Weyoun and Keevan hadn’t always hated each other. It was a long, complicated, road, their relationship, a road which eventually hit a dead end at pure hatred. There was no coming back from what either had done to the other, and both had made their peace with that fact. Screams and wishes for the other to be dead were hidden under derisive comments and half-noticed glares, and it had been so long the tension in their behavior towards each other had all but dissipated, it was a casual sort of unbridled hatred, the kind that no one else really noticed unless they were somehow aware of their history, which no one was. 

Except, of course, for the Founders. 

Because it was, fundamentally, the Founders who had caused this. From Keevan’s perspective, at least. He would never have the courage to admit it was himself who’d caused the rift between him and Weyoun, but he wasn’t as horrible as to somehow pin the blame on Weyoun. So, the logical step was to blame the Founders, they were the ones who’d tortured Weyoun, after all. So it was their fault. 

It was their fault, he would say, for years afterward, and Weyoun would scream at him, anger bubbling over as he insisted, over and over again, that it wasn’t their fault, because the Founders made no mistakes, they were wise in all things, and it was Keevan’s fault because he’d just  _ stood there.  _ He’d stood there and watched and the only thing he’d been thinking was,  _ at least that isn’t me. _

They’d been assigned to a mission together, the Founders had noticed they worked well together, that they’d formed a bond, and it wasn’t far enough along in Dominion history for them to decide friendships or intimacy between Vorta was unnecessary and unwanted. It was Keevan’s second iteration, and Weyoun’s first. They were meant to obliterate a species of aliens living on a nearby planet, because the species had refused to join the Dominion. 

_ Obliterate  _ being the operative word there. 

Keevan, as it turned out, had a heart. Weyoun was just as surprised to learn this information as anyone else would be, but he’d convinced Weyoun to give them a chance. However small, give these people a chance to live, to continue on, and no one needs to know. The Founders would never find out, so long as neither of them told, because it was only once in a blue moon that they bothered to check up on the assignments they sent the Vorta on. 

Of course, that was the one time they did. A Founder came aboard their ship and asked whose idea it had been, who was responsible for their failure to complete the mission, and why that species was still alive. Keevan, in what everyone might perceive to be his second (and last) moment of selflessness, admitted the truth. 

He remembered his words, clear as day, “It was my idea. Weyoun went along with it because I forced him. Punish me, not him.”

It had been a risk to say it, of course. But reverse psychology worked even on shapeless beings made of goo. 

He remembered watching, face free of emotion, as the Founder gripped Weyoun by the throat with a rapidly extending arm, and threw him across the Bridge. He remembered the smirk of self-satisfaction he’d thrown at Weyoun without a second thought when he’d managed to sit up enough to look Kevan in the eyes. 

“You knew they’d do this,” Weyoun said, when they were alone together, Weyoun in a cell and Keevan being allowed to walk free because he’d been given the opportunity to either be deactivated and his line discontinued or he could destroy that species. So he’d destroyed the species. He had never cared  _ that  _ much, to begin with. Letting them live had been a whim, nothing more.

Keevan met Weyoun’s gaze, seeing the anger there and finding it exhilarating. “I hoped,” he said, and Weyoun pulled against his bindings, lashing out to attack him, or at least try to.

“Did you set this whole thing up? Was the plan to save those aliens a ruse, too?” Weyoun asked, Keevan almost lied and said yes, to see how much angrier he could make Weyoun. But the wave of pettiness dissipated as his eyes ran across Weyoun’s form, noting the deep, angry cuts and broken off fingernails. He’d done this. He shook his head, and Weyoun didn’t seem comforted by it at all.

“They’ll let me go once you’ve  _ learned your lesson,”  _ Weyoun said, and Keevan heard the note of a plea in his voice. He could end this all right now, and Weyoun might forgive him. 

“They want me to kneel at their altar and beg forgiveness, yes,” Keevan said, nodding. He sat down with his legs crossed, in front of Weyoun. “I have no intentions of doing that.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Keevan didn’t have an answer for that. Or at least, he didn’t have an answer that would explain his behavior to Weyoun, and he certainly didn’t have the time or energy to explain to Weyoun exactly why he did the things he did. He’d never intended for any of this to happen, but here he was, and here they were. “I hate them.” he eventually said, and Weyoun flinched away as if Keevan’s words had physically hurt him.

“You can’t  _ say  _ things like that-”

“Yes, I can. I hate them, Weyoun.”

Again, Weyoun struggled against his bindings. “You’re the one who should be in here. Not me, I’m- I would never say something- something like that, I would never  _ do  _ anything to against them, I-”

“Yes. I know. But see, the thing is, I’m not there. Because I care more about myself than you do. You’ve always said you’re happy to die them, and now you get your wish. So there. Your first death. Fair warning, it hurts a  _ lot  _ more than you’ll expect it to.” With that, Keevan stood up, brushed himself off, and left. 


	16. Keep Telling Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keevan + self surgery  
> Featuring: theres some exposed bones, bro. bro theres some exposed bones here, we got exposed bones on aisle 16

The steady dripping of water off the stalactites of the cave was going to drive Keevan insane. He couldn’t block it out, much like he couldn’t block out the pain that spiked up from his chest every few seconds with enough strength to make him black out for several seconds at a time. 

He was going to die,  _ he was going to die. _ And he really didn’t want to. 

Several iterations ago, Keevan had been a sufficiently talented surgeon. He wasn’t anymore, most of his skills had all but dissipated after several hundred years of non-use, but he was going to die anyway, so he supposed he had nothing to lose by trying.

“Remata’Klan,” he raised his arm, waving it weakly to get the Jem’Hadar’s attention. “What do we have by means of-” he broke off, clenching his teeth together as another wave of pain pushed itself through him, “-knives? Scalpels? Anything sharp.”

“I will find something.”

“And,” Keevan added quickly, before the Jem’Hadar could walk away, “some small pieces of metal.” He tentatively pushed a hand against the side of his chest, and the disconcerting feeling of his ribs moving around independently was probably worse than the pain that rippled through him. “Three. Make sure they aren’t jagged. Cut some metal into strips with your phaser if you must.” He took a breath, trying to get enough air in his lungs without jostling his ribs any more than they already were. “And then give me your phaser.” 

Keevan watched him walk away, and then focused his attention back onto the metal wires he was currently stripping from some sort of apparatus that had once been a part of his ship. Some of the wires were far too thick to be used for stitches, but Keevan had other plans for those, he’d need all of it he could get. Remata’Klan came back with a small knife, along with some strips of metal that would probably suit Keevan’s purposes, and handed them all to him, along with his phaser. 

“Stay here,” Keevan ordered, as he turned and began to walk away. He stopped and seemed almost like he was about to question Keevan, but decided against it. “I need someone to hold my skin open,” he said by way of explanation, not that it explained much.

His hands were shaking as he held the knife, sitting up as much as he could to view his chest, and took a long, deep breath before pushing the knife against his skin, along the line of his first broken rib. He felt the bone move, and then didn’t feel much of anything, and saw spots in front of his vision, beginning to feel almost grateful he hadn’t eaten in two days, he probably would’ve thrown up if he could.

“Put-” Keevan could barely speak, the world was spinning and a sickening, throbbing pain was pushing itself through his body, “put the blanket against the incision, to sop up the blood,” he ordered, “and then-” he breathed through his nose, clenching his jaw and trying desperately to prevent himself from passing out, “grab each side of the cut, and pull it open until you see bone. And hold it there.”

Vorta  _ did  _ have an exceptionally high pain tolerance, another gift from the Founders, most likely, and this was the only reason Keevan hadn’t passed out yet, but that didn’t mean he didn’t scream as the cut was pulled open, and not particularly gently either, although that was about what he could expect from a Jem’Hadar. 

It took several long seconds, but he managed to open his eyes and look down at his chest. He could see his rib, and the jagged crack where it had broken into two pieces, but thankfully it didn’t seem to have moved too much. Which was lucky for his vital organs, he supposed.

He dropped the knife somewhere next to him on the bed and picked up the phaser, along with the metal bits and scraps. Experimentally, he fired the phaser at one of the pieces of metal and watched as it heated up, then slowly began bending sideways. He continued heating it until it reached a curve roughly the same as one of his ribs. 

He took a deep breath and reached down to his chest with one hand, and used one finger to hold up the broken part of his rib, and placed the metal piece on top of it. Welding the metal to his bone was harder than he thought it would be, not that he’d exactly thought it would be a walk in the park, but it was almost impossible to get the bone to stay in the correct position when he only had one available hand. And any stray shot of the phase would end up with him searing a hole through a vital organ. 

“Let go,” he finally said, and Remata’Klan removed his hands from the edges of the cut. He’d have to stitch himself up, and considering the fact that thread was nonexistent here in the seventh circle of hell, he used the metal wires, poking it through his skin and back out again. At this point, the pain of it was almost laughable, and the realization that he’d have to do this two more times, for each broken rib, was for some reason even funnier. 

He laid back, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, whether from the pain or simply exhaustion, he wasn’t sure. 

“I don’t know why I don’t just kill myself,” he whispered to himself, although he was fairly certain at least one the Jem’Hadar heard him. Not that he had it in himself to care at the moment. “At this point, it might be easier.” But he’d come so far. He’d finally escaped. He was free of the Dominion, if only for a short time. And if he was honest with himself, any pain, self-inflicted due to mediocre surgery or otherwise, was preferable than spending any portion of his existence pretending he loved the Founders. 


	17. That You've Been Playing Nice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dayoun + Weyoun with internal bleeding
> 
> Featuring: Weyoun has bronchitis and decides to actively Not Care that his throat is going to Murder him.

“Really Damar, I’m-” Weyoun stopped talking to cough into his arm, “I’m fine.”

His voice was hoarse, which made sense, considering he’d been coughing nonstop and collapsing at control panels for the past week. Damar had originally made it his duty to actively  _ not care  _ about Weyoun’s illness, at first, at least. It had started off seeming manageable, just a cough and a bit of apparent fatigue, nothing that wouldn’t be fixed by Weyoun taking a day off and resting, for once in his life. 

Of course, Weyoun hadn’t taken a day off, he hadn’t even taken an hour off, and after a few days, Damar finally acknowledged it, telling him to see a doctor before he ended up infecting Damar, to which Weyoun had responded by tiredly explaining the differences in Cardassian and Vorta immune systems, and why it would be impossible for Damar to get whatever Weyoun had. Weyoun had then promptly passed out, and Damar physically dragged him to his quarters and threw him on his bed, then locked him in. Not that locking him in did much, Weyoun had a higher security clearance than he did, so of course he’d been back at work as soon as he’d woken up.

“You’re not fine,” Damar responded, crossing his arms. “You aren’t eating, you fall over every time you stand up, and you can’t even finish a sentence without hacking up a lung.”

Frowning at him, Weyoun grabbed the back of his chair to hold himself up, his arms shaking. “I assure you, Damar, my lungs are still in the appropriate location in-” he coughed again, lifting an arm to cover his mouth and nearly falling over, “-in my body.”

“It’s a figure of speech,” Damar muttered, and he would’ve normally continued an argument with Weyoun, but he didn’t want to prompt Weyoun to talk any more than he already had. 

Weyoun opened his mouth, like he was about to say something, and a noise did come out of his mouth, and then he bent over and coughed. Dark purple blood sprayed out of his mouth, landing on the conference table and dripping down his chin as he stood up straight. “Oh,” he said, staring down at it as he wiped his mouth. He coughed into his hand and the amount of blood it left on his palm was one of the most disturbing things Damar had ever seen, and he’d worked with Dukat for a decade.

“That’s not normal,” Damar said, and immediately regretted saying. Way to state the obvious. “I’m taking you to a doctor.”

_ “No!”  _

Never in all the time Damar had known Weyoun had he heard him speak in such a manner that he could practically  _ feel _ Weyoun’s fear. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever known Weyoun to be afraid of anything to begin with. 

“No,” Weyoun repeated, his voice soft and shaky now, and he stumbled backwards, losing grip on the chair, and Damar caught him before he fell over. “I would rather drown in my own blood.”

A horrifying mental image, but Damar chose not to press the point. 

“Then at least rest, Weyoun. You can’t work like this. I’m-” he paused, physically restraining himself from saying the words on the tip of his tongue,  _ I’m worried about you. _ “You’ll only slow everyone else down. And it’s not like I can’t manage without you.”

_ “Rest?”  _ Weyoun asked, and the incredulous edge to his tone was one Damar did not have the capacity to understand. “I can’t  _ rest.”  _ He paused again to cough, pressing his face against his sleeve. It came away bloodstained, but Damar chose not to comment on it. “If I’m in a state in which I can’t even  _ work,  _ I may as well activate my implant. I’m useless.”

There was a long silence as Damar attempted to think up something to say. His mouth opened and closed, the worry that was seeping into him was becoming unbearable at this point, and anger at the Founders for making Weyoun think this way. 

He didn’t voice any of this, instead he just said, “You’re so dramatic,” and dragged him out of the conference room and down to Damar’s own quarters.

“Where are we  _ going?”  _ Weyoun asked, a hint of incredulity seeping into his tone, but he didn’t attempt to remove himself from Damar’s grip. Whether that was because he didn’t want to or because he was incapable of breaking free from Damar’s grip, Damar wasn’t sure, but he supposed it didn’t matter anyway. He was going to get Weyoun to take a nap, even if it meant strapping him down on a bed and sedating him, although he hoped it wouldn’t have to go that far.

“I’m taking you to my quarters. You’re taking a nap, and I’m not letting you out until you’ve slept.” 

“How do you know I won’t just override your locks and leave again?” Weyoun asked, probably thinking he sounded clever, but in actuality he sounded like an ailing peasant child.

“Because I’m staying with you. Obviously, you can’t be trusted to be left alone.”

“I won’t  _ die  _ if you don’t stay with me,” Weyoun argued. 

“You very well might. I wouldn’t put it past you to activate your termination implant the minute I leave the room, to increase your productivity to the Dominion, or whatever your excuse was.”

Weyoun didn’t seem to have a response to that, or perhaps he’d simply lost the ability to speak, because the walk to Damar’s quarters was silent the rest of the way. 

Damar helped Weyoun onto his bed, and removed Weyoun’s coat, wrapped him up in blankets, gave him several extra pillows, and made sure to turn the room temperature low enough so he’d be comfortable. 

“Now  _ rest,”  _ he said, trying to sound forceful but was fairly certain he just ended up sounding exhausted. 

“I’m fine,” Weyoun mumbled, burying himself in the pillows and blankets Damar had smothered him in. “Just a… momentary weakness.”

Damar couldn’t even come up with a proper answer for that, so he said nothing.


	18. And Go Beg For Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dayoun + Damar with an infected wound
> 
> Featuring: less infected wound content and more emotional suffering. oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psa if u get impaled pls dont remove the thing doing the impaling unless u are a medical professional. u will only damage ur insides even more by not removing it at exactly the same angle as it went in, and also depending on the location of the wound, u might bleed out. that being said, weyoun and damar share exactly one braincell between them, and they lost it somewhere in the shuttle crash.

“Didn’t you ever get any medical training?” Damar asked, to which Weyoun responded with a derisive scoff. Excellent to know his snark surpassed ship crashes.

“Of course not. I’m a  _ diplomat.  _ I never needed medical training. Besides, your species is… foreign to me,” Weyoun replied as he stared down at the metal impaled in Damar’s chest with an unreadable look on his face. “I believe a good first step would be to… remove this?”

“Do I  _ look  _ like I know?” 

“Traditionally, you never look like you know anything, but on occasion, you have been known to provide valuable insight.”

Damar squinted up at him, frowning to himself at Weyoun’s very specific choice of words. “Was that a compliment I sensed wrapped up in that insult?” 

Choosing not to answer, Weyoun only gave him a mysterious half-smile that did nothing but set Damar’s teeth on edge, and continued examining the wound. Actually removing the metal lodged in Damar’s chest seemed to take a million years, but in reality it was likely only a few minutes and just felt as if it had been forever because Damar spent the entire time valiantly attempting not to cry out in pain the entire time. He doubted Weyoun would judge him if he showed he was in pain, especially in the scenario they were currently in, but he couldn’t help the need he felt to consistently hide his emotions. Even in the presence of someone he’d risked his life for countless times. 

“Do you have anything to wrap this up with?” Damar asked as soon as he was able to speak without yelling in pain or making some other humiliating noise.

Weyoun frowned, glancing around at the remains of their shuttle and various objects he’d managed to salvage, before looking down at himself. 

“Yes,” he said, removing his coat and examining it. He pulled at it, but the material seemed to be too thick for him to rip, and Damar managed to let out a wheezing laugh at his weakness. Weyoun glanced up at him to frown, and then proceeded to remove his shirt, and put his coat back on. 

Damar was already rather weak and faint, and seeing Weyoun with such a low-cut article of clothing, wasn’t helping. It exposed his chest hair in a way that Damar really shouldn’t have liked as much as he did, but here he was. And there Weyoun’s chest hair was. Perhaps Damar was becoming dizzy and confused from the pain.

Ripping up his shirt was apparently easier than his coat, because Weyoun managed it easily and urged Damar to sit up to wrap the strip of cloth around his torso, tightening it as if that would stop the blood from flowing. It was a nice effort, but Damar was fairly certain that if the medical kit wasn’t located, he was going to bleed out. 

“How do you feel?” Weyoun asked, and the concern in his tone was something Damar wanted to tease him about, but he couldn’t find the energy for it. 

“Awful,” he said instead, and Weyoun frowned, although not at Damar, he was looking back at the shuttle as if it had personally offended his sensibilities.

“Will you be alright here while I look for the medical supplies? If we were lucky, at least some pain suppressors must have survived.”

Damar nodded once, and watched Weyoun give him a little confirming nod before vanishing out of sight behind him. Damar laid back, staring up at the sky. In any other scenario, he thought it might be pretty. There were at least three moons visible from his position, all shining brightly with the light from the planet’s multiple suns, and shooting stars passed by every few minutes. 

********

Finding medical supplies that could help Damar was made even harder by the fact that Weyoun had no idea what he was looking for. He ended up finding painkillers, but not much by means of antibiotics or anything to clean the injury other than the likely-contaminated seawater from the planet they’d landed on. 

Days passed by without contact from the Dominion, or, in fact, contact with anyone who’d heard their distress signal. Damar’s injury continued to grow worse, and while Weyoun wasn’t exactly an expert, he was fairly certain it shouldn’t be so… gooey. Not only that, but Damar seemed to be getting rather delirious. He would say things that were increasingly outlandish, such as his recent declaration that he wanted Weyoun to meet his stepchildren and son. 

He spoke about his life on Cardassia before the Dominion War often, almost as if telling stories of his life was distracting him from the pain, but when alerted to their situation, he didn’t seem to understand what Weyoun said. At one point, he became speaking of a Cardassian marriage ceremony, and Weyoun assumed that he was describing his marriage to his now ex-wife, until he began talking about how beautiful  _ Weyoun  _ had looked, the fact that they’d served rippleberry flavored desserts even though Damar hated the taste. 

It was easy to ignore at first, Weyoun was far more occupied with finding a way to prevent the infection of Damar’s wound from spreading or deepening, but eventually he ran out of things to try, and Damar’s stories became more compelling, and, to be honest, more welcome. 

The narrative Damar had imagined in his mind consisted of a future where the war was over, or perhaps there never was a war, but it didn’t matter, and nothing seemed to matter to Damar aside from Weyoun and his family. 

Why Weyoun was included so thoroughly as Damar’s life partner in this fantasy was a matter Weyoun wasn’t prepared to dwell on, but whenever he attempted to change the subject to possible repairs of their ship, Damar became angry and confused, so Weyoun stopped trying to convince him that the life he’d imagined wasn’t real. 

As much as Weyoun would like it to be, as blasphemous as that wish was, Damar’s barely-coherent tales could never be a reality. 

**Author's Note:**

> [these were all requested on my tumblr, but all requests are now filled! Thanks so much, y’all!](https://kaijuvenom.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kaijuvenom)   
> 


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